


Right By My Side

by specklesandflowers



Series: FRIENDS [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, F/M, Gen, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Kent "Parse" Parson/Jack Zimmermann, Shitty Knight is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-01-29 05:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21405016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/specklesandflowers/pseuds/specklesandflowers
Summary: How Jack Zimmermann and Shitty Knight Overcome the Sophomore Slump (ft. first-year versions of a certain pair of d-men and the one and only Larissa Duan)
Relationships: Shitty Knight & Jack Zimmermann
Series: FRIENDS [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1526897
Comments: 38
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

Three days before the rest of the team comes back for pre-season, Shitty moves into the Haus.

His mom drives down with him to help move boxes up the stairs, but she doesn’t stay long. Shitty is just hugging her goodbye when a familiar black truck pulls up in front of the Haus. He’d like to say that he doesn’t tear himself out of his mother’s arms to throw himself at Jack, but, well. He kind of does.

Jack staggers backward with an “Oof,” clearly out of practice with his ability to catch Shitty no matter the circumstances.

“Hello, my beautiful polar bear prince.”

Jack shoves at him and laughs. “Hi, Shits.”

It’s not like he hadn’t seen Jack all summer – they’d spent a few memorable weeks with Alicia and Bob in Montreal and Jack had come to Cambridge for a little while, but Shitty’s newly realized codependency has apparently decided to rear its ugly head.

Jack hugs Shitty’s mom hello and Shitty ducks down to kiss her cheek before she drives away, promising she’ll try to make it to a couple of home games this year, and Shitty watches until her car turns the corner before leaping at Jack again.

They get Jack’s stuff up to his room with minimal huffing and puffing, because of course Jack has been training all summer long. Shitty… hasn’t, but then again, Shitty isn’t going to be first line anytime soon. As soon as Jack sets the final box down on the floor, Shitty collapses onto his bed in a sweaty heap. 

“Eugh. Shitty. You’re gonna make my bed sweaty.”

Shitty winks up at him. “I’ve gotta break these sheets in somehow, baby.”

Jack turns a very interesting shade of pink and tears open one of his boxes with vigor. Shitty, still worn out from carrying everything up the stairs, just props himself up on one elbow and watches as Jack begins to unpack.

The first thing he pulls out of the box is that goddamned “Be Better” poster, because of fucking course it is. Shitty glares at it once Jack has it unfurled, and just shakes his head when Jack looks over at him.

“I hate that fucking thing.”

Jack’s lips thin as he presses them together. “It’s… motivational.”

“It’s bullshit, is what it is.” Shitty says.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to push yourself, Shitty.”

Rather than fight him over it, Shitty just watches as he carefully sets the poster on his desk and turns back to the box. He stays splayed out on Jack’s bed, refusing to help him unpack in any way beyond encouraging words and a few wolf-whistles when Jack squats down to pick up a box.

The other guys arrive eventually, Johnson hauling his stuff into his new room across the hall and Eggy and Flappy disappearing into the attic. They all poke their heads into Jack’s room to say their hellos, but for the most part leave the two of them alone. Eventually, most of Jack’s stuff is out of boxes and lying around the room, Jack looking around at all of it a little wearily, and Shitty grabs him by the arm and hauls him down the street to Faber.

Jack, who has and maybe always will be more comfortable on the ice than solid ground, beelines immediately for the equipment room to try and dig out some pucks from somewhere, while Shitty goes to dump their gear in the locker room. When Jack hasn’t appeared after a few minutes, Shitty makes his way towards the gear room to chirp him for getting lost and stops dead in his tracks.

“Holy shit.” The equipment room is a mess. Cones are everywhere, extra jocks flung randomly around shelves, and pucks are strewn about the floor. There’s a spare goal lying on its side in the back of the room, netting tangled up in a mix of cones and two helmets and a stray skate blade. 

Jack emerges from the depths of the room with an empty bucket in hand and an almost comical look of dismay on his face. “This is ridiculous.”

“This is the entrance to hockey hell, is what this is.” Shitty shudders, “You shouldn’t be here, Zimmermann, the hockey demons won’t know what to do with you.”

With a grimace, Jack scoops up a couple of pucks and drops them in the bucket with a clatter. “No wonder we can’t find a new manager.”

That’s news to Shitty. “I thought Mikey had that figured out before he left?”

“He thought the younger brother of one of his friends would do it, but the kid ended up taking a gap year and the other two candidates both had something come up after their tour and interview with Hall.” He frowns at the unholy mess behind him. “Now I guess I know why.”

They stand there in intimidated silence for another moment before Shitty says, “Well. If they get scared away by a closet, they’ve got no chance trying to order us around.”

“I guess.” Jack frowns. He scoops up a couple more pucks and turns to Shitty. “Please don’t tell the guys we still don’t have a manager.”

“I won’t.” Shitty adds a couple pucks in the bucket. “Need help finding someone?”

“At this point, anyone who you think could hack it I would take.”

“I’ll ask around, brah. Got your back.”

He and Jack spend an hour just messing around on the ice, until Jack tries to actually get some physical exercise and Shitty resists by collapsing at center ice and refusing to move.

“Just skate right over me. Slice me in half. I’m not ready for practice, Jacko, I’m going to  _ die _ .”

Jack stops short with a spray of snow directed straight at Shitty’s face and cackles as Shitty curses him out. “You should’ve been lifting, Shitty, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not gonna take it easy on you just because you whine at me.”

“Okay,  _ captain. _ ” Shitty grouches, saluting him with a single finger.

Jack gathers the pucks they’d picked up from the equipment room and starts hitting them gently at Shitty until he hauls himself to his feet. Jack puts the pucks away and goes to talk to the coaches while Shitty takes a long, hot shower and changes, and the two of them head back to the Haus once they’re done.

Jack slips into their shared bathroom when they get back, and Shitty collapses onto Jack’s bed in lieu of returning to his own room. Jack emerges from the shower and glares at Shitty, who shrugs unapologetically and waggles his eyebrows at his friend, who just rolls his eyes with a sigh. 

“Hey,” starts Shitty as Jack gets dressed, “wanna come smoke with me? I think I can get the window next to my room open enough that we could go out on the roof.”

Jack, to his credit, actually looks like he’s considering it before he shakes his head. “We start pre-season soon.”

“But we had so much  _ fun –  _ ”

“Not tonight, Shits.”

“… wanna help me break open my window?”

“You’re gonna fall off the roof.”

Shitty scoffs. “Please, Zimmermann. I play a sport with knives strapped to my feet, I can manage.”

“The roof could break. I have less faith in the structural integrity of this house than I do in your balance, Shitty.”

“Structural integrity my  _ ass _ ,” Shitty mutters, sullenly picking at a corner of Jack’s duvet. “Why are you being allergic to fun right now?”

Expecting Jack to grumble about the responsibilities of collegiate athletics, Shitty’s surprised when Jack says, “I can’t afford to just _have_ _fun_ right now, Shitty,” voice hard and angry.

“Whoa, brah,” Shitty sits up on the bed, eyes fixed on Jack, “what the fuck is happening right now? Did someone body swap you when you were in the bathroom?”

Jack, whose back is turned towards Shitty as he hunches over his dresser, visibly clenches. His voice is controlled when he speaks, even though it’s to say “I think maybe you should go back to your own room.”

It would be enough of a deterrent for literally anybody else, but Shitty just frowns at Jack’s very sculpted back muscles. “No.”

“Shitty – ”

“No, Jack, because you sound like you’re two minutes away from punching something, and I would like to know why, because we have had a very fucking nice afternoon. Which  _ was fun _ , and therefore you are  _ wrong. _ ”

When Jack refuses to move from where he’s standing at his dresser, Shitty gets up and moves towards him. When the hand he puts on Jack’s shoulder isn’t violently shoved off, he pulls Jack over to his bed.

Jack sits, but he still won’t make eye contact, and Shitty throws himself on the bed to at least jostle him a little. It doesn’t work, because Jack Zimmermann is built like a fucking Greek god, so he barely even moves. Eventually, though, he sighs and puts his face in his hands.

Shitty leans his head on Jack’s thigh. His massive thigh. Why the fuck did Shitty not work out over the summer. “Are you ready to talk to me now?”

“It’s just that.” Jack releases a very Controlled Breath. “I’m captain. I have to be captain now. I can’t just play around, I have to start thinking about plays, about lines, about what the hell I’m going to do without a manager, and I just.” He shrugs helplessly and lifts his head from his hands, bleak stare fixed on the opposite wall.

“This summer was great, and it was fun, but season starts in three days and everyone is going to be talking about how my captaincy affects the team, and how well we do is a reflection of how  _ I’m  _ doing, and I can’t stop thinking that I’m just gonna… fail.”

Shitty pats his pillow-thigh comfortingly. “First of all, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re going to fail. The boys have heads and egos too big to let you think that you’re the singular fucking player on this team.”

“It’s not really the team I’m worried about, Shits.” Jack says quietly.

Mentally slapping himself for forgetting that Jack has the weight of the entire hockey community on his shoulders, Shitty purses his lips. “Your dad? Or…”

“Or.” Sighs Jack. “Or the NHL scouts that think they dodged a bullet after the overdose. Or the people who’ve been saying I should never have come to college. Or the commentators that still talk about my ruined NHL career. I don’t want to drag Samwell down with me.”

“Jack.” Shitty sits up to look at him, grabbing Jack’s face in his hands to turn his head towards Shitty. “I realize that you get undeserved shit from the media on a level that the rest of us could never possibly hope to understand, but I need you to know that the hockey that you play is and always will be fucking gorgeous, even if you fuck up once or twice. People are always gonna talk shit, and that sucks balls, but the people who really matter are gonna know that you are the captain of this team because you’re the best player on it, and that you’re doing your best to lead a bunch of batshit college kids playing a damn  _ college sport _ . Which is never going to be the same level as professional fucking hockey.”

“I also recognize that you feel like you’re personally responsible for the reputation of Samwell Men’s Hockey.” Shitty adds after a pause, because he needs Jack to know that he was very serious about that first part and slightly less serious about this. “And I am here to tell you that that is utter bullshit, and I will not stand for it any longer.”

Jack rolls his eyes and opens his mouth, but Shitty reaches up to clap a hand over it. “No, shush. Unfortunately for you and your delicate fucking sensibilities, there is nothing you can do to salvage the on-campus reputation of SMH. There’s probably nothing you _ should  _ do, because once you leave this team is still going to be the rowdy, irritating mess that it is now. We are heathens, Jack Zimmermann, and you are stuck with all of us.”

Jack swats his hand away, but he’s more relaxed now. His thigh is (just barely) softer under Shitty’s head. 

“Also, as long as we can play somewhat cohesive hockey, the off-campus reputation of SMH doesn’t matter nearly as much as you think it does. Alright?”

“Alright.” Jack says slowly. “Can you remind me of that in two weeks when all I’m doing is yelling at people?”

Shitty grins. “Gladly.”

The next three days fly by as the rest of the team trickles back to campus. Jack has meetings with the coaches almost every day, still hasn’t figured out the manager situation, and is so constantly on-edge that Shitty refuses to talk to him about hockey, resulting in Jack barely talking to him at all.

Instead, he spends his time bonding with Flappy and Eggy, cracks the window frame in his bedroom trying to pry the screen open, and getting very, very high out on the roof.

By the time their first practice rolls around, Shitty misses Jack. He arrives at Faber, intending to hug him into softness, and is instead faced with a stoic, robotic version of Jack Zimmermann he hasn’t seen since the very beginning of last year. 

It’s worrying.

Hall and Murray make their customary speeches and ask for introductions, and Shitty watches the handful of new frogs and their feigned confidence with glee. He already loves them. They’re barely even younger than he is – one of them, Adam Birkholtz, is a year  _ older  _ after spending a year in Juniors – but they’re going to be Shitty’s minions. All of them.

Well, some of them. The ones that aren’t already annoying and/or casting sideways glances at Jack like just looking at him is going to make a pile of cocaine magically appear in front of them. 

Alright. Maybe not most of them. Maybe just Birkholtz. And the one with the cheekbones in the stall next to him. Something Oluransi.

He’s so busy almost-glaring at the frogs that he doesn’t realize it’s his turn to introduce himself, until frog-Oluransi nudges him tentatively with his foot. “Oh, fuck. I’m Shitty. ‘m from Cambridge. Sophomore. Winger. All that good shit.”

Murray frowns at him but Hall just snorts and waves the intros along, Jack going last from his position up front next to the coaches. He makes a stilted speech about how excited he is to work with this year’s group, belied by the lack of intonation in his voice and the way his stony expression doesn’t change even a tiny bit. By the time it’s over and Hall reads out the lineups for their first couple of drills, Shitty wants nothing more to be out on the ice. 

It’s… not so bad, all things considered. Jack mostly watches from the sides and calls out changes, making small comments to the coaches here and there. He joins in on some drills and just watches others, and Shitty is too busy worrying about how fucking out of shape he is to pay too much attention to anything else.

One thing he  _ does  _ notice, though, is the way two of the new frog defensemen haven’t dropped a single pass. It’s Birkholtz and Oluransi with the Cheekbones, who are eyeing each other with something approaching awe once Hall calls the drill dead.

Even Jack is surprised, judging by the angle of his eyebrows and the relaxed set of his shoulders as he joins them. The rest of the boys are appropriately quiet, seeing as two frogs are somehow outperforming the entire top line.

Jack doesn’t say anything, just claps them both on the shoulder and nods approvingly before Hall explains the next drill. Out of the corner of his eye, though, Shitty notices the frogs exchange a quiet, ecstatic grin and fist bump.

After practice, Shitty throws his arms around the shoulders of his two new favorite frogs. He has to tiptoe to do it, too. They’re fucking giants. “Hello, boys.”

“’Sup. Shitty, right?” asks Oluransi.

“Yes, my darling Oluransi,” Shitty sighs, “and my dearest Birkholtz. The new dynamic duo of Samwell Men’s Hockey.”

Birkholtz ducks his head and a delightful pink flush crawls up the back of his neck. “I think we made a pretty good team.”

Oluransi throws a beaming smile his way.  _ God _ , he’s beautiful, and it’s not just the fucking cheekbones, either. How unfair.

Shitty can appreciate the aesthetic of the male form, okay?

“’Chyeah, bro.” Oluransi reaches across Shitty for a fist bump. “Ransom and Birker, baby.”

Birkholtz grimaces, and when Oluransi – Ransom – furrows his brows at him, he says, “That was the nickname they gave me in Juniors. Didn’t love it, but it stuck.”

Shitty claps him on the back. “Well then, brother, it is our responsibility – nay, our  _ duty _ – to give you a nickname you love.” The frogs look at him oddly, but they have no choice but to get used to his theatrics, so he continues. “Birkholtz… Birkholtz… Birky?” It sounds too much like Bergy, so he keeps trying. “Birko? Holsy. Holtzy. Holtzer. HOLSTER.” Shitty shouts, stopping in his tracks and slapping the blonde giant next to him.

Ransom grins next to him. “Ransom and Holster.”

“Holster and Ransom.” Birkholtz-turned-Birker-turned-Holster grins back. “Yeah, I like it.”

They’re back at the locker rooms at this point, and everyone is changing out when Jack makes a point of coming over to their corner of the locker room to talk to the two new d-men.

“You two were pretty effective out there today.” Jack says. It’s high praise, and Shitty smiles a little to himself as he pretends to be busy rummaging through his gear bag.

He waits for Jack after practice as he goes to talk to the coaches. It’s tentative, since he and Jack still haven’t really spoken, but it’s also tradition, and so Shitty waits in the hallway. He distracts himself by scrolling through the group chat as the team hashes out the hazing plans for the new frogs and laughing to himself. By the time Jack emerges from the coach’s office, the boys have decided to steal and freeze their underwear during practice. Where they’re going to find a freezer that they’ll be able to  _ burn afterwards  _ remains to be seen, and Shitty has decided to be a neutral party until they can figure that out.

Jack is quiet for a while on their walk back, which strikes Shitty as odd until he remembers his day-long refusal to speak to Jack about hockey. 

“Practice went well today, huh?” Shitty says, relenting and elbowing Jack in the side.

A tightness Shitty hadn’t noticed melts away from the corner of Jack’s eyes, and he smiles a little. “I think so, yeah. Those frogs were pretty good.”

“I foresee a little R&H magic in our future, Zimmermann. They’re gonna be swawesome together, I can  _ feel it. _ ”

“Yeah, okay.” Jack grins. “You hurting yet?”

Shitty winces. His legs are a little tender, enough that he knows he’ll feel it tomorrow. “No.”

Laughing at the blatant lie, Jack kicks at the backs of Shitty’s knees until he wobbles a little. “Sure?”

“Get fucked _ , _ Zimmermann.”

“You first.” Jack shoots back, to Shitty’s abject delight. 

He screeches with joy and launches himself at his friend, relieved that they’re back to chirping each other. A week back together with Shitty has ensured that Jack is once again accustomed to his antics, and Shitty grins through the pain of a facewash as they grapple together on the sidewalk. 

They join the team for lunch, and it’s getting easier and easier to get Jack to join in on conversation now that he’s captain. Ransom and Holster are seated next to each other, already sharing a bowl of fruit and so engrossed in conversation that they fail to notice Asher crawling beneath the table and tying their shoelaces together. Flappy is sitting on Shitty’s right, bitching about his classes for the year and how he’d fucked up his schedule back in his frog year. On Shitty’s other side, Jack is talking strategy with Eggy, because of course he is, and Shitty smiles to himself while he nods and makes sympathetic noises in response to Flappy’s whining. 

The dining hall is fairly empty, school still a few weeks out, and the sounds of his team fill the space up quickly. When Flappy gives up on words and starts knocking his head on the table in front of him, Shitty just pats his shoulder and rolls his eyes at Eggy, who looks over at the two of them in fond amusement. 

Ransom and Holster choose that moment to stand up for seconds and trip over each other almost immediately. The table erupts in the type of laughter that would get them kicked out of the dining hall during the normal school year, and the frogs sheepishly untangle their shoelaces and help each other up. It’s nice, just sitting and listening to the noise of his loud, stupid hockey family yell at each other, and he realizes with a burst of contentment that he’s really,  _ really _ looking forward to the year ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello! Year 2!
> 
> I'm so excited for this year. Ransom. Holster. RansomandHolster. LARDO. So many possibilities. My outline for this year consists solely of Ransom, Holster, Lardo, Jack, and Shitty. So much for the OC's I threw at Shitty last year, rip. Get out of your hockey bubble, Shitty.
> 
> Also, I hope every single one of you who commented on part one know just how much your kind, incredible words warm my heart. I might not be able to reply but please know that I read and re-read your comments constantly. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
> 
> I love you all! Year 2!! Here we go!
> 
> (ps tumblr post is  here )


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophomore year - new classes, new friends, and maybe a new manager?? That last one is a work in progress.

Shitty has lived through playoff season Jack Zimmermann. He’s lived through finals season Jack Zimmermann. But by the time they’re one week into pre-season, Jack’s usual 110% intensity has skyrocketed to heights Shitty hadn’t even realized were humanely possible.

They’re running drills Shitty isn’t even certain are helpful in any way, to any _ one _ , especially when most of their top line can barely make sense of the lanes Jack tries to create. His patience seems thinner than air, sometimes, and enough of the guys have started complaining to Shitty that he’s probably going to have to do something about it soon.

Why it’s  _ his _ job to fucking talk some sense into Jack is beyond him.

Otherwise, though, being back on campus has been great. Living in the Haus is fucking sweet, barely anyone is around, and the team can be as loud as they want – which, to be fair, doesn’t normally stop them, but it’s nice to not be the recipient of dirty looks every five seconds – and so far Shitty has mostly enjoyed living next to Jack. 

Except for when he’s being a dick.

He hasn’t really talked to Jack about hockey for the past couple of days, and as a result their friendship has consisted almost entirely of Shitty chirping about the frogs and stressing at Jack about his course load this semester. 

It’s not  _ bad, _ per se, but Shitty misses his best friend. And he’s tired as fuck of tiptoeing around the fact that Jack is being an uptight douchenozzle about everything right now.

After a particularly brutal practice that ends in even Ransom and Holster leaving looking dejected, Eggy and Flappy manhandle Shitty into the horror that is the supply closet and fix him with identical frowns. “Shitty.”

He groans.

“You  _ have  _ to say something, Shitty, this is fucking ridiculous,” says Eggy.

“Why do  _ I  _ – ”

“Because you know he listens to you, Shitty.” Flappy interrupts him, “We know it’s not fair and we’re sorry, but if anyone was gonna say something to make him chill out it’s gotta be you. He just doesn’t care about the rest of us.”

Shitty has to bite back the retort that Jack acts like this was because he  _ does  _ care, and that’s sort of the whole problem right there. “Alright. Fuck.  _ Fine. _ I don’t know what the fuck kind of magic you expect from me, but I’ll talk to him.”

Flappy and Eggy exchange a fist bump and Shitty glares back at them. “I said I’d  _ talk  _ to him, alright? I don’t know if it’s gonna do shit, but I’ll try.”

“That’s all we needed, Shitty,” Flappy says, reaching out to ruffle Shitty’s hair. 

That night, Shitty steels himself and settles into Jack’s bed while Jack himself works at his desk. Jack shoots him a surprised glance as he does so; it’s been a while since Shitty has inserted himself into Jack’s space like this. The reason being sort of because Shitty’s been trying to bond with the new frogs, and mostly because Jack has been an intimidating motherfucker lately.

Plus, Shitty’s actually clothed for once. That’s odd enough.

He folds his hands in his lap once he’s settled and stares at his feet. “Jacko.”

Jack makes a questioning noise from where he’s sitting and Shitty refuses to look at him, because despite thinking about it all afternoon he literally has no idea what the fuck he’s supposed to say. 

‘The team hates this’ – a surefire way to lock Jack up tight in his shell and ensure he never makes human connections again.

‘What are you trying to do, brah?’ – better, but it sounds like it’s coming from Shitty personally and he doesn’t really. Want that.

‘Please stop for the love of God you’re scaring the frogs’ – he’s scaring everybody else, too, and Jack barely even knows the frogs.

He settles on, “Jack.”

“What, Shitty?” He sounds sort of wary now, which is not what Shitty wants.

“Can we maybe talk about how practices have been going? One bro to another?”

There’s a suspiciously long silence, during which Shitty finally turns to look over at his friend. Jack sits hunched over at his desk, brow furrowed.

“Uh,” says Jack, after a while, “sure.”

Okay. Shitty takes a breath. “I’m just… not super sure that these practices are accomplishing the things you want them to?”

Jack is quiet, and to fill the silence Shitty continues to ramble. “I mean – what I meant was that I know the boys appreciate that you’re pushing us hard, and they know how much of a fucking beast you are, but I just think that maybe. Um.” The next words get caught in his throat. “We aren’t all  _ you _ .”

Once again it’s quiet, and Shitty cannot keep his fucking mouth shut to save his life, apparently, so he keeps talking. “I mean shit, can you even imagine a whole team of Jack Zimmermanns? You’d be unstoppable.”

“Shitty – ”

“Like holy shit, I cannot imagine playing against six of you at once, because I love you, bro, but holy  _ fuckballs _ that would scare the absolute shit out of me.”

“ _ Shitty _ .”

He shuts up.

Jack spins around in his desk chair so that his body is facing Shitty, but neither of them looks at the other. For a moment, the only sound is Jack anxiously cracking his knuckles.

“I know – ” Jack tries to speak and his voice comes out sounding a little strangled. He clears his throat and tries again. “I know I’ve been pushing them. Hard. But it’s because I know they can handle it.”

“ _ Jack. _ ” Shitty turns to face him and reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder, which turns out to be too far away. His hand lands on Jack’s thigh instead, and Shitty pats it comfortingly anyway. “As touching as that is for me to hear, I don’t think  _ they  _ know that _ . _ ” He pauses, then adds, “To be fair, it’s been  _ really _ hard, Jacko. Like, I know I’m not first-line material or anything, and I know I haven’t working out over summer, but even the guys on the first lines are struggling?”

He drags himself into a more seated position on Jack’s bed and says, “I’m not trying to tell you how to captain your team, brah, I’m just saying that maybe easing up would make a lot of the boys more, uh. Receptive?”

When he glances over at Jack, the furrow of his brows has become less upset and more considering, which bolsters Shitty to finish with, “Plus, Jackabelle, I think you’re scaring the frogs.”

Jack stands from his desk and throws himself down on his bed, bouncing Shitty slightly as he does so. “Ugh.”

He’s landed half on top of Shitty’s shin, so their position can’t be comfortable for either of them, yet neither makes any attempt to move. 

“Did they put you up to this?” Jack asks, staring up at the ceiling.

Shitty hesitates. “I’m not sure which answer you want to hear right now.”

Jack smiles a little and looks over at him, finally. “The true one.”

“Eggy and Flappy did. I probably wouldn’t have done it otherwise.”

“Why not?”

Shitty shrugs. “I’m just fourth line, brah. Who am I to try and change our practices because I’m having a rough time?”

Jack sits up at that, frowning at Shitty. “Wouldn’t you have told me, though? As your friend?”

Wincing, because he knows the answer and Jack had asked for honesty, Shitty shrugs. “Gonna be straight with you, man, you’ve felt more like my captain than my friend recently.”

For some reason, the expression that crosses Jack’s face at that is the most troubled Shitty has seen him this entire conversation.

“I – Shits, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no,” Shitty shakes his head quickly and clasps Jack on the shoulder, which he can finally reach. “No worries, dude.  _ I’m _ sorry I couldn’t figure out another way to talk to you about all of this, I mean –”

Jack stops him with a shake of the head, “No, Shitty. I’ve been an asshole. If I made if you feel like you can’t tell me things that matter then I’ve been a shit friend. You don’t deserve that.”

Shitty opens his mouth to deny it but finds he can’t. “Aren’t you supposed to be the captain first, though?”

“I feel like this is a special case.” Jack says, accompanied with a not-so-light slap to Shitty’s leg. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you saying that you’re ‘only fourth line’ like that somehow makes you less important than everybody else.”

Against his will, Shitty feels his face heat. “Ah, you know how it is,” he says, before he realizes that Jack does not, in fact, know how it is, and most likely never will, “That’s not what I mean. I just mean that hockey is just for fun, for me. It always will be. ”

“Doesn’t make you less important for the time you decide to do it, though,” says Jack. “Our team isn’t just six people, Shits. Depth on the bench is essential on any hockey team.”

Shitty rolls his eyes. “Yes, thank you for the media snippet, Mr. Zimmermann.” Jack opens his mouth to protest and Shitty lunges forward to stop him, clapping a hand over his mouth and scrubbing his knuckles into Jack’s hair for good measure.

Jack allows Shitty to pretend like he’s winning their impromptu wrestling match for half a minute before he hooks Shitty’s thigh under his arm and tosses him clear to the end of the bed. Shitty lays there for a second, trying to catch his breath as discreetly as possible, and Jack flops down next to him. 

“Thanks for telling me, though.” Jack says, “about the team, I mean. I know practices have been… difficult, but it’s only because I want us to be at the top of our game, and if I don’t push them to do it we’ll just have the same record every year – almost but not quite Frozen Four material – and we can do better than that. I know it.”

“And I’m sorry that the boys made you feel like you had to be the one to talk to me about it,” he continues. “If my team can’t come to me, that’s on me as captain. I’ll make sure to bring it up with them at practice.” He smirks at Shitty. “Discreetly. So that they don’t think you snitched.”

“I didn’t  _ snitch –  _ ”

“You  _ dropped names _ , Shits, that’s almost worse.” Jack almost laughs. “Lucky for you, I’m too lazy to run upstairs and chew out the seniors.”

“Shut your dumb face.” Shitty whacks him in the arm. “Also, um. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but you’re reacting to this really well.”

Jack catches his arm before it can make contact and swings it back at him. “Yeah, well. I knew I was starting off pre-season tougher than a lot of the team is used to. I’d already talked it through with Hall and Murray over the summer. We expected pushback.” He rolls over onto his side and shrugs a little. “And it  _ was _ easier to hear coming from you. I guess I can thank Eggy and Flappy for that one.”

Shitty nudges him with his foot. “They picked you as captain for a reason. They knew what they were getting into. But maybe tell them all that shit you told me, about how you push them because you know they can take it. Even if they voted you in, it’ll be nice for them to hear it.”

Jack nods, thoughtful, and they lapse into silence again. After a while, long enough that Shitty is starting to ask if Jack wants to smoke up with him because he finally seems relaxed enough to say yes, Jack breaks the silence.

“Am I really scaring the frogs?”

Jack does end up speaking to the team, and while practices don’t necessarily get any easier, Jack begins to open up to the rest of the team as the days go by. Most of his criticism is less than constructive, but he’s talking to the boys more, and he’s spending more time explaining the drills and plays he creates, and the boys eventually fall into line. Students start returning to campus, starting as a trickle and then all at once, and suddenly the school year is beginning and Shitty is an actual college sophomore.

The start of fall semester brings with it the start of four brand-new classes, only one of which Shitty is actually looking forward to. Mixed in with his intro level econ and poli-sci courses comes Masquerade as Critique:  “In a culture in which visibility is always on the side of the male, invisibility on the side of the female… are not the activities of unveiling, stripping, laying bare… unmistakably male prerogatives?” 

The course description had raised the eyebrows of a couple of his teammates, but Shitty couldn’t care less. He’d raved about it to Jack during shop week, chattering about the male gaze and the blinders of white privilege. Jack’s only response had been, “that’s cool, Shits,” but he’d  _ sounded  _ interested, so. 

He and Jack are taking another English class together this semester, at Shitty’s insistence and to Jack’s easy agreement: Firing the Canon: Early Modern Women’s Writing, about the ways the historical literary canon has been changed by the rediscovery of early female writers. Shitty would have thought it would be harder to get Jack to agree to take a class with him, but it’s right up Jack’s alley as a potential history major, and Shitty has somehow managed to get it cross-listed as one of the literary components of his WGS major, so it’s a win for both of them.

It doesn’t start until Tuesday, though, so for the first day of classes Shitty is pretty much on his own. There are a few of his teammates in his Principles of Economics lecture, so they’re  _ that _ group of hockey boys. They’re mostly frogs who are planning on heading down the business degree path, and Holster is there, which is fun.

He doesn’t know anyone in his Intro to Political Thought, which is probably for the better, because from day one Shitty is fully prepared for a semester of verbally eviscerating the two LAX Chads enrolled in the course. It’s abundantly clear that they’ve decided to begin their political careers by talking over their professor and very loudly dismissing any and all opinion that is unaligned with their own. Shitty can’t stand the fucking LAX bros.

The day ends with Masquerade as Critique, and the class size is small enough that it’s located in a classroom rather than a lecture hall. There are only a handful of people in the room, barely more than twenty, and the professor – “Call me Leah” – hops up on the desk in the front corner of the room rather than sitting in a chair. She swings her legs back and forth, surveying the room for a moment, before calling them to attention.

They go around the room for icebreakers. He recognizes many of the students from his previous WGS course, though none he knows personally. As usual, Shitty’s own introduction draws a few bemused glances – “Hi, I’m Shitty Knight, it’s not a nickname, I’m a sophomore, and I spent my summer making my father very, very disappointed” – and the girl to his left snorts quietly before she introduces herself.

“I’m Larissa Duan, I’m a first year, so I have no idea what I’m majoring in yet,” She pushes her long hair back with one hand and light glints off of the silver rings she wears. “I spent my summer convincing my mom that she didn’t need to move to out Massachusetts with me.”

Something about the way she says it spurs Shitty to ask, “Did it work?”

She looks over at him, amused. “As of now, I think it did.”

“Swawesome.” He grins down at her – and it is  _ down _ , she’s shorter than him by a decent amount even seated – and she grins back. 

While they’re packing up at the end of class, Shitty can’t help but linger until Larissa is packed up and heading out the door. They walk out together, blinking for a moment in the harsh August sunlight, until Shitty sticks out a hand.

“Shitty B. Knight.”

She eyes him warily but shakes his hand. “I… know?”

“In-class icebreakers are so formal, brah. I wanted to say hey outside of all that shit.”

“Well, in that case,” she shakes his hand, “Larissa Duan. Nice to meet you, Shitty.”

He inclines his head. “You too. Where are you headed?”

“Oh,” she says, “I’m done for the day, actually. I was gonna go chill at the student center for a while, I hear they have some cool art programs that I sort of want to look at. You could come with, if you want?”

It’s in the exact opposite direction from the Haus, which is where Shitty was planning on heading for a pre-practice nap. He must hesitate for a moment too long, because she smiles apologetically and cuffs him on the arm. “Next time.”

“For sure, brah. I’m sorry, I – ” for some stupid reason, he doesn’t really want her to know that he plays hockey. “I have a thing I have to get to up by East Quad.”

“Seriously, no big,” she says, already walking backwards away from him, “I’ll see you around, Shitty Knight.”

“Yeah,” he says, watching as she turns away. The sun glints off her dark hair in the same eye-catching way as her rings in the classroom. There’s no way she can hear him anymore, but he raises a hand and halts it in midair – an aborted wave. “See you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus H. Christ, y'all, this chapter did not want to be written. So very sorry for the wait. Have I mentioned that I hate exposition?? 
> 
> Also - although I may not have replied to your comments, please know that I have read them and continue to read them over and over again. They are my main source of motivation to finish this series. I genuinely adore every single one of you. 
> 
> (Also also - credit to Brown's course catalog for Shitty's schedule) 
> 
> tumblr post  here! 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kegster, a new beer pong champion, and an unexpected visitor
> 
> Real quick trigger warning: Jack has a panic attack in this chapter, I've bolded the start and finish for you!

It’s been one month into the school year and already Shitty feels like everything is just sort of… dragging. October creeps closer and closer, as does the start of the season, but for some reason he cannot for the life of him feel like he’s working towards anything.

He voices these concerns to Jack one day as they’re sitting out on the roof; Shitty had finally managed to open his window screen – he may or may not have broken it, but that’s a problem for future-Shitty – and now spends most of his free time smoking out on the roof in increasing stages of undress and glaring at the LAX house across the street. Jack, who is still skeptical of the structural integrity of the Haus in general, joins him only very rarely. 

“I just feel like I’m doing  _ nothing, _ ” Shitty whines, taking a deep drag of the joint between his fingers, “like, what is the point of turning in midterms and daily reading journals if I’m not even going to fucking remember any of the material three months from now? Why are we conditioned to view exams as a measure of our worth when the professional workplace won’t ever fucking ask us to sit us down and remember every detail of a project we did two months ago?”

“Because the American educational system is useless and places value on the regurgitation of useless facts and figures rather than preparing any of its students for the struggles of daily life?” Jack offers.

Shitty raises the joint in a mock salute, “Couldn’t have said it better myself, brother.”

They fall quiet and just sit next to each other, Shitty occasionally blowing smoke up towards the clear September sky. Jack is a solid presence next to him, albeit quiet, and Shitty knows how stressed Jack is about their upcoming season, so he’ll take any sort of one-on-one time he can get.

He  _ does  _ get chatty when he’s stoned, though. He’s never been one for sitting and binge-watching shows; he’d much rather have dumb conversation than veg out like that. It’s hard, sometimes, to just sit with Jack in silence, because his brain tumbles around so often when he’s high. 

“Hey,” he says, because his mind is just foggy enough to eliminate his brain-to-mouth filter, “can I ask you something?”

Jack raises his eyebrows in reply, and Shitty slumps into his shoulder before asking, “Who’s harder to coach, SMH or your Peewee kids?” because it’s honestly been something he’s been curious about since Jack stepped into his role as captain.

Since he’s leaning into Jack, he can feel it when Jack laughs. “Honestly? It depends on the day.”

Shitty snorts.

“I’m not really the coach here, though,” muses Jack, “which makes it a little harder. There’s a lot of stuff that’s harder about captaining college hockey that isn’t even an issue in Peewee teams, you know? Those kids just want to play hockey. They have so much fun with it, and they’re still learning, and they don’t even know who they are as people yet.” He pauses for a while, and when Shitty looks up at him his eyes have gone a little distant.

“That was the best part, I think,” says Jack, “getting to watch them grow up a little in the ten months that I knew them. College hockey is – it’s different, because I’m still part of a team, and what I tell the guys to do impacts me as a player. It’s harder to separate the game from the rest of my own life, now.”

Shitty sits up and nudges him, “Would you ever coach a college hockey team?”

Jack chuckles a little at that, “I mean, I don’t want to just say no, but I liked the younger kids a lot. And I think I’d rather stay out of the politics of college hockey, if I’m being honest.”

Nodding next to him, Shitty adds, “and they’re really just overgrown dumbass children, aren’t they.”

Jack puts his face in his hands, mock-weary. “Dumbass children who can  _ drink _ .”

After Shitty is done laughing about that he asks, “Do you keep up with your kids?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, “A couple are starting on Midget teams this season, but most of them are still in Bantam. I think only one or two of them stopped after Peewee.”

“They all stay up in Canada?”

“Yep.”

“Sweet.”

They lapse into silence again, Shitty almost finished with the joint, when he catches Jack looking at it thoughtfully. 

Wordlessly, he offers it over. He’d stopped asking a couple of weeks ago, since Jack doesn’t want to risk any sort of drug-induced mindset interfering with his game (or something), but he can’t forget the two very memorable weeks he’d spent in Montreal over the summer, the two of them talking in circles about nothing and everything all at once. He doesn’t ever  _ want  _ to forget that, if he’s being honest.

Jack shakes his head and smiles a little at Shitty, “Think I might have a contact high from sitting next to you this whole time, though.”

“Thanks for that, by the way.” Shitty says, “You didn’t have to come out here with me. I know you hate it.”

“I don’t  _ hate  _ it. I just don’t trust it.”

“Sentiment’s still the same, brah.” Shitty says. “And I know you’ve got shit you’re stressed about.”

Jack groans, head falling backwards and squeezing his eyes shut. “We really need a fucking manager.”

Shitty claps him on the back, sorry he’s brought it up, “I told you, brah, I got your back. I’m on the lookout.”

“Thanks, Shits.” Jack says on an exhale, pushing himself up to a crouch. “I’m gonna head in, okay? I’ve got a paper to work on. You good out here?”

“’m fucking great, my dude.”

Jack makes his way back to the windowsill, comically slow, and Shitty calls after him, “Don’t fall through the roof!”

He gets a single finger in response.

SMH’s first official kegster is set to happen two weeks into September, carefully planned for when the weather is just starting to cool down enough that people can still wear as little as they want by way of clothing, yet the weather outside on the Haus porch is the perfect escape from the humid party atmosphere. They’re also not in season yet, which means that  _ technically _ the boys can drink as much as they want – not that that stops them during the rest of the year, but it’s still nice to feel like they have a bit of freedom.

Shitty has to hand it to Flappy and Eggy. They’re damn good party planners.

He’s pushing to finish most of his coursework before Friday night, because he plans to spend most of Saturday spectacularly hungover. When his WGS class is over at 3:00, he asks Larissa if she wants to spend her afternoon in the library with him, discussing the new material. She shoots him a surprised look, which is fair considering Shitty usually disappears after class to take a nap before practice at 5:00, but nods.

She has, in the few weeks they’ve been in class together, discovered that Shitty is on the hockey team. It’s not that he hadn’t wanted her to know, necessarily, but listen:

Shitty knows the reputation of SMH around campus, okay? He’s fairly sure there’s a twitter account that exists to warn people when his teammates are in the library, and they get enough dirty glances from students during mealtimes, and sure, they do well enough in the NCAA that the student athletes have some grudging respect for them, but they  _ aren’t _ generally known to be the best people.

_ Like Spills _ , his mind so helpfully supplies when he thinks about it too much.

So, he carefully hadn’t mentioned to Larissa that the reason he never does anything after class is because he has to sleep before hockey practice in order to be a functional human being. The cat sort of jumps out of the bag, though, when Dylan from his WGS class last year asks him when the season starts.

“First game is October 5 th ,” he says offhandedly, wincing when Larissa elbows him in the side thirty seconds later.

“What sport do you play?” she whispers, eyes still trained on their professor. 

He takes a moment to admire the way she’s able to talk with just the corner of her mouth, lips barely even moving, before she elbows him again.

“Shit,  _ ow _ ,” he mutters, “I’m on the hockey team.”

_ That _ apparently warrants a full-body turn and a raised eyebrow, “Hockey, huh?”

He grimaces, “Yeah.”

She takes him in, eyes flicking once up and down his body, then simply says, “Huh,” and turns to the front once more.

They haven’t really talked about it since. Nothing about their dynamic has changed, though, at least to Shitty’s knowledge. And she agrees to accompany him to the library after class a week later, so Shitty figures they’re alright.

He’s got his laptop open in front of him, scowling at one of their assigned academic articles and attempting to translate the bullshit academic jargon into normal-person English. Larissa looks over at him and actually stifles a laugh when she sees whatever expression is on his face.

“Why do you look like you want to personally murder – ” she checks the article and closes her notebook, “Pagnucci and Muariello? No way you hate pseudonyms in cyberspace  _ that  _ much.”

He bemoans his jargon issue to her, and she just laughs at him. Her eyes crinkle up a little at the edges. “Is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of my college career? A slow, sad descent into madness, driven by the untranslatable horror that is academic writing?”

“Chyeah,” Shitty grins, “and as your elder of one year I suggest you escape while you can.” He throws a dramatic hand over his eyes. “I cannot watch someone so young and full of life fall as far as I.”

She scoffs and throws her balled-up straw wrapper at him, “Drama queen.”

“I reject the notion that I must be a queen to be dramatic,” Shitty sniffs, “the inherent sexism embedded in language is the  _ reason _ behind everyday discrimination, Larissa Duan.”

“Yes,” she says, “ _ that’s  _ the reason for discrimination.” Her face shutters just slightly.

Not that Shitty is paying close attention, or anything.

“Hey,” he holds up both hands, sitting up straighter, “I didn’t mean to imply anything there, I swear. I’m sorry if – shit, I’m  _ really  _ sorry if it came off as a dumb entitled white boy trying to mansplain discrimination, fuck.”

Larissa chews on her straw for a moment, studying him, before sighing, “It’s chill.”

“It’s not, though,” Shitty protests, “I can’t – look, I’m trying to be better at this sort of stuff, okay? I swear. I really am sorry. I open my mouth before I think, sometimes.”

“Shitty,” she says, “it’s really okay. I appreciate that you’re trying. That’s more than most people.”

He considers her for a second. “Can I ask you something? It’s almost a favor and you can for sure say no, it’s not like this is your responsibility or anything, but, uh.” He scratches his nose, trying to buy time, before asking, “Would you call me out on shit like that? If I’m being dumb and ignorant and saying shit I shouldn’t be? I know it’s a fuck-ton of responsibility to place on you, but I need people to hold me accountable sometimes.”

“I can try,” Larissa says, with surprisingly little hesitation, “but seriously, Shitty. It’s impressive that you’re this self-aware. I’ll do my best, alright?”

“That’s more than enough,” he says, “thank you.”

She sits back in her chair and smiles a little at him, “I’m not gonna lie, that’s not where I expected this conversation to end up.”

“You and me both, brah,” Shitty says, running a hand through his hair. It’s getting long, he notices – longer than he usually grows it. His mom would make him get it cut, but.

Larissa grins, with a glint in her eye Shitty is more used to seeing on his teammates when particularly good chirp material is presented to them. “Especially from a  _ hockey _ bro.”

It had to come up sooner or later, he guesses, “Look, we get a bad rep, okay? A lot of those guys aren’t so bad.”

“Hockey culture is toxic as shit, bro.”

“Oh, no, you’re absolutely right,” Shitty nods vehemently, “it’s fucked up. But a lot of the guys on the team really aren’t so bad, if you manage to look past the volume and the, uh, physicality.”

“Coming from a cis white man?” Shitty’s pretty sure that’s a chirp, but he takes it at face value.

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging, “that’s the only perspective I can give you right now. I’d love for it not to be, but.”

“But.” Larissa agrees, re-opening her notebook and picking up her highlighter. “The jury’s still out on that one, then, and I’m remaining skeptical until I’m proven otherwise.” 

“That’s fair,” Shitty agrees, “also can you actually please tell me what they’re trying to say on page four because I have absolutely no fucking clue.”

He and Larissa finish up at the library around 5:00. Jack texts him, asking if he wants to grab dinner, and he texts back, ‘ _ chyeah, bro. just leaving the  _ library’ while waiting for Larissa to finish packing up her stuff.

“Do you not have to go to practice today?” she asks as they start to weave their way through tables.

“Nah,” Shitty replies, “we had weights this morning and we’ve got the rest of the day off.” He doesn’t mention the party, because he has a feeling that a Haus party would not make the best first impression. Especially if he’s trying to prove to Larissa that his team isn’t just a bunch of dickish, privileged assholes throwing themselves around on a slippery surface.

They’re just stepping outside when Shitty hears someone call his name, and Jack jogs up the steps to the library.

“’Sup, Jacko,” Shitty fistbumps him, “nice timing.”

“I was in the econ department for a meeting, had to walk back to the Haus at some point.” He glances over and extends a hand to Larissa. “Hi, I’m Jack.”

She takes it with an amused glance at Shitty, “I’m Larissa.”

“Oh,” says Jack, and Shitty knows that tone of voice all too well, “you’re  _ that  _ Larissa?”

He steps on Jack’s toes as subtly as possible – read, not subtly at all – in an attempt to stop what he just  _ knows  _ is about to come out of Jack’s mouth. 

“Shitty talks about you all the time.” 

Dammit, Zimmermann. He flashes his most charming grin at her, hoping she can’t see in his eyes how much he wants to punch Jack. “Because she is my saving grace in this class, Zimmermann, don’t you dare mess that up for me.”

She smirks up at him, “Don’t sell yourself short, Shitty. I think you’re doing just fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She fiddles with the straps on her backpack, almost like she doesn’t quite know what to do with her hands, and says, “I’ll leave you boys to it. See ya, Shitty. Nice to meet you, Jack.”

“You too!” Jack calls after her as she walks away. He turns to look at Shitty with an absolute shit-eating grin on his face. “That’s Larissa, huh?”

“I – you – ” Shitty socks him in the arm, hard enough that his own hand aches, “fuck  _ off _ , Jack.”

Jack just cackles – Shitty didn’t know that was even a noise he could make – and slings an arm around his shoulders. “Why don’t you tell me all about why I should do that over dinner?”

Shitty shoves at him, “I don’t even  _ want  _ to get dinner with you anymore, you fucker,” and only protests a little halfheartedly when Jack tries to wrestle him down the steps of Founders.

Flappy must make the tub juice especially strong that night, because Shitty has only had one cup and his vision is already starting to tilt a little around the edges. He preemptively snags a water bottle from the kitchen and chugs it all at once, grimacing when his stomach churns a little in protest.

He tosses the bottle into the trash can next to the kitchen door and glances around the living room. It’s still relatively early, so the Haus isn’t too packed yet. Jack is leaned up against the wall talking to some girl on the volleyball team, which Shitty forces his brain to remember so that he can chirp Jack about it later. Ransom and Holster are setting up a beer pong table in the hallway, and Flappy is pouring another handle of vodka into the already horrendous tub juice. All in all, it’s a pretty standard kegster setup, and he spends the earlier parts of the night trying to weasel out the tub juice recipe from Flappy.

By 10:00pm, it feels like most of Samwell’s student population has arrived at the Haus. Eggy’s phone is plugged in to the aux, and he’s pumping out some top 40 dance remix, and Shitty is pleasantly buzzed.

He’s not drunk, not yet, but he’s been playing and losing pretty spectacularly at beer pong for the last fifteen minutes, so he’s well on his way. He’s so caught up in lining up his next shot that he almost misses Larissa walking through the front door, surrounded by a couple of other first years that Shitty doesn’t know.

Needless to say, he fucks up his shot fairly spectacularly, screeching, “ _ Larissa Duan!” _ and abandoning Matts at the pong table.

He vaguely notices the protests that follow, but one of the girls that had been eyeing up Matts from the sidelines the entire game easily steps into Shitty’s vacated spot, and effectively steals Matts’ attention. Larissa, meanwhile, has waved her friends on ahead of her and is leaning up against the wall in the hallway.

“’Sup, Shitty?”

“Larissa,” he grins, “welcome to our humble abode.”

She wrinkles her nose and looks around, “This place is kinda rank, dude.”

“I  _ know _ ,” Shitty agrees, “it’s wonderful.” He makes a sweeping gesture towards Flappy, standing by the tub and doling out tub juice to a crowd of people. “Shall we get you something to drink?”

She looks a little skeptical, and rightly so, but nods anyway, “Just one, though. I’ve heard rumors about this stuff.”

Shitty elbows his way to the front of the crowd and fills her cup himself before returning to her. She winces at the fumes before even taking a sip, but gamely takes a swig and, to Shitty’s abject delight, barely winces as it goes down.

“You’re a fucking champ, brah,” Shitty says to her, and she rolls her eyes at him.

A cheer erupts over at the pong table, and Shitty glances over to see that Matts and his new partner have been very soundly defeated. He doesn’t look too put out, just slings an arm around her shoulder as she chugs the last cup. 

“New game, let’s go!” hollers Asher, Eggy next to him starting to set up the cups for another game.

Shitty knocks a shoulder into Larissa’s. “Wanna give it a shot?”

She sizes up Eggy and Asher for a moment before shrugging a shoulder and, in a feat so impressive Shitty has never seen it before, throws back the remainder of her tub juice and tosses the cup in a trash can. “Sure, I’ll try my hand at it. No promises, though.”

When she and Shitty step up to the table, Asher points a finger at him, “No playing if you’re just gonna fuckin’ dip in the middle of the game again.” 

“Nah, bro, we’re gonna fuckin’  _ destroy  _ you.” Shitty retorts, shaking out his hands. Larissa just rolls her eyes next to him.

Asher and Eggy take the first turn as the reigning champs, and only Asher makes his second throw. Shitty shoots first, missing both of his, and then Lardo steps up to the table and smoothly sinks both her shots, one after the other.

Shitty stares at her. “Damn, I feel like I should be drinking to that turn, brah, what the fuck?”

She smirks up at him, “I was pretty good at this in high school.”

‘Pretty good’ turns out to be an understatement, because she only misses three shots the entire game. Needless to say, it’s over pretty quickly, and both Eggy and Asher actually round the table to offer up fist bumps to Larissa before another pair steps up to the table to try their luck.

Eggy actually grasps her hand. “It was an honor, dude.”

She laughs, “Yeah, okay.”

Shitty just shakes his head at her. “That was wicked impressive, brah. I’ve never seen them taken down so fast before.”

“Pretty low caliber of pong being played here, huh?” she says. “Guess I gotta show all you hockey bros how it’s done.”

“Okay, chill,” he laughs, “that was only one game.” 

She narrows her eyes at him, and he immediately backtracks. “I mean, I have no doubt you could thrash the absolute shit out of my entire team, I just – ”

Larissa shakes her head slowly and starts to put her hair up in a ponytail. “You’re gonna eat your words, Shitty B. Knight.”

As the night goes on, she proceeds to win every single match. The only paring to even put up a fight is Ransom and Holster, though Shitty supposes it makes sense for the two of them to be as oddly compatible at the pong table as they are on the ice. 

It’s nearing 11:30, and people are just starting to reach that stage of the night where they’re clearly much more intoxicated, and Larissa has managed to win the respect of every single one of Shitty’s teammates, and he thinks he might be just the tiniest bit in love.

Ransom and Holster had accepted a gracious defeat, followed immediately by hoisting her up on their shoulders and parading around the Haus. She makes eye contact with Shitty at one point and she’s laughing, arms wrapped around Ransom and Holster, and somehow Jack materializes at his side right as he grins back at her.

Jack hands him a water bottle with a smirk, and Shitty says, “Say one word and I will knee you in the balls, Zimmermann. Don’t think I won’t do it.”

“I’m not saying anything,” Jack says, “just thought I’d bring you water like the totally loving and considerate best friend that I am.”

“Mmhm,” Shitty says as he unscrews the water bottle and takes a sip, “I’m sure that was the only thing you came over here to do.”

Jack ruffles his hair. “I’m gonna head upstairs, actually. Wanted to make sure you got some water before I left.”

“You’re so sweet,” Shitty plants a kiss on his cheek and shoves him towards the stairs, “don’t think you’re getting out of telling me deets tomorrow though.”

“I don’t have any deets!” Jack hollers as he shoves his way towards the stairs.

Shitty’s gonna get it out of him eventually, so he just waves goodnight to Jack and pushes after Ransom, Holster, and Larissa. He finds them laughing in the kitchen, Ransom and Larissa trying to shoot goldfish into Holster’s open mouth across the kitchen table. 

He feels an irrational flare of jealousy for a second before all three of them stop and notice him, yelling incoherently before dumping goldfish into Shitty’s hand. Larissa and Ransom are making most of their shots, but Holster waves their game to a stop when Shitty accidentally nails him in the eye and can’t stop laughing about it.

“What the fuck, Shitty,” Holster sits up, rubbing his eye and glaring at him, “ _ ow. _ ”

Ransom says, “Don’t blind him, Shits, what the fuck. I need him.”

“ _ Thank you Rans. _ ”

Larissa just throws the rest of her goldfish into her mouth and chomps on them. “You guys are weak.”

“Hey – ” Shitty says, “you just fuckin’ wrecked my entire team at pong, cut them a break.”

“That is true.”

“You’ve got mean skills, bro,” Ransom says, reaching over to brush goldfish dust off of Holster’s forehead, “you’ve probably earned yourself an honorary place at that pong table for the rest of time.” He pauses, then looks over at Shitty, “Wait, can I do that? As a frog?”

“I’m pretty sure the rest of the guys would agree with you,” says Shitty, “so I’ll say yeah. Congrats,” he says to Larissa, “you’re one of us now.”

“You need a hockey nickname,” says Holster from his seat at the table, the beginning of a flush on his cheeks from the alcohol and words slurred just the slightest bit, “Larissa is too many syllables.”

Shitty barely even has to think about it. “Lardo.”

“ _ Lardo _ .” Ransom and Holster high five without even looking at each other, and Shitty watches Larissa nod slowly.

“I like Lardo a lot more than Larissa, honestly.”

“Swawesome,” he grins at her, “Lardo, queen of SMH beer pong.”

Eggy crashes through the kitchen door just then, stumbling his way through the room and vomiting right into the sink. Both frogs cringe and look at Shitty, like it’s his responsibility as the oldest of the four of them to take care of their shwasted senior. Shitty just puts his hands up and shakes his head, knowing that if Eggy is in such a bad state in here then Flappy probably isn’t far behind. 

Sure enough, not even ten seconds later, Flappy enters the kitchen much more calmly and frowns at Eggy bent over the sink. “Fucks sake, man, I told you the tub juice was strong shit tonight.”

Eggy just sort of groans from over the sink, and Flappy sighs and pats him on the back. “Shitty, can you go man the tub juice for me? I gotta take care of this dumbass.”

Shitty nods, backing up slowly towards the door and grabbing blindly for Lardo along the way. She grabs his arm and they leave together, hearing the concerned frogs ask if there’s anything they can do before the door swings shut behind them.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Lardo asks from beside him.

“Oh, yeah,” Shitty says, settling against the wall next to the tub juice, “Flappy’s got ‘im. There’s a reason I only gave you one cup of this, brah. It’s some strong shit.”

“What’s in it?”

“No idea,” Shitty confesses, “only Flappy has the recipe, and I’m pretty sure he has no fuckin’ clue what he puts in it. I think it’s just the highest proof alcohol he can afford mixed with some shitty soda.”

Lardo huffs out a laugh and props herself up next to him. “Jesus.”

“Are you sticking around for much longer?”

“Dunno,” she looks up at him, “I’m pretty sure my friends are gone. But I’d play more pong if there’s anyone on your team I haven’t beaten yet.”

“I think the only one you haven’t beaten is Jack, and he’s upstairs.” Shitty laughs.

“Why?”

“Eh,” Shitty shrugs, “parties aren’t really his scene. He’ll stick around for a little bit, now that he lives here, but he usually fucks off pretty early.”

Lardo wrinkles her nose in disgust as she surveys the current state of the living room, “How do you  _ live _ in this place?”

“It’s pretty disgusting,” Shitty allows, “but we usually make the frogs clean it up. The first years,” he clarifies when she looks confused, “we aren’t really supposed to haze, so that’s part of it.”

The look she sends him is an unspoken ‘ _ toxic hockey culture _ ’ and Shitty doesn’t deny it, just nods and looks out at the living room again. A couple of people come up to him to ask for tub juice, and he makes sure to only pour out half-cups this far into the evening. Lardo gets pulled away into a conversation with Asher, probably asking for pong tips after his two-time crushing defeat earlier in the night. Eventually, Flappy re-emerges from the kitchen and tells Shitty that he’s hauling Eggy up to the attic, and since he’s already doing great and the party is almost over anyway could he maybe please take over?

Shitty agrees, because it’s a pretty chill gig, so that’s why he’s still downstairs and pretty much doing nothing when the rest of the evening goes to absolute shit.

It starts with a shout from someone out on the porch.

“Yo, that’s a  _ sick _ car, dude.”

Immediately, because they’re hockey bros and they need to prove their masculinity by being into things like cars and engines and horsepower, most of the Haus residents near a window glance outside. Then the whispers start.

“Holy fuck, dude, is that – ”

“Nah, there’s no way.”

“…Shit dude,  _ is _ that Kent Parson?”

“Fucking  _ look _ at him, bro! Tell me that’s not Kent Parson.”

“There’s no way that’s Parse, what the fuck would be he doing  _ here _ ?”

The rest of the people at the party begin to pick up on the hockey team starting to lose their collective minds, and soon enough nearly everyone at the Haus is trying to get a glimpse out the windows facing the street.

Shitty, warily, also tries to peek out the window. He and Jack have very, very carefully and deliberately  _ not  _ talked about Kent Parson, especially since the Aces had won the Stanley Cup over the summer and Jack had very much ghosted the fuck out of Shitty the week of the finals and at least two weeks following. He knows that Kent and Jack have a… past, and that even when just talking to Shitty about it he can barely get the words out sometimes, but the blatant refusal to speak to anyone had seemed excessive at the time. During the playoffs, the boys had been absolutely blowing up their team group chat, and while Jack rarely contributes anything on a good day, there’d been radio silence from him the entire time. One of the boys had commented on how Jack knew a Stanley Cup winner, now, and Jack, who doesn’t normally ignore direct messages, hadn’t even typed out a single emoji in response.

So Shitty is very aware that if, in fact, Kent Parson has decided to show up at the Haus tonight, things are most likely not going to go well.

What those things are, he has no idea, but he’s prepared for the absolute worst.

There’s a minor scuffle between his teammates over who gets to be closest to the door, because now that  _ Kent Fucking Parson _ is apparently walking up onto the porch of their goddamn frat house everyone needs to pretend like they haven’t been staring at him out the window for the past thirty seconds. Most of the partygoers have realized that they don’t know who’s here, so they’ve returned to dancing and drinking, but the hockey team is so on edge that Shitty can practically feel it. He can hear voices on the porch; whoever is out there clearly has no idea who Parse is, just that his car is  _ really _ nice, and then the door is creaking open and the Haus feels like it’s holding its breath.

Shitty, who hasn’t moved from his spot on the wall next to the tub juice, can’t see the doorway very well. He  _ can _ see Lardo, sinking the final shot of her game against some of the econ majors, and hears Asher curse as she does so. On second thought, though, he might be swearing because the star player in the National Hockey League is apparently standing in their front door.

“Kent fucking Parson,” says Storey, who Shitty assumes has pulled rank as a senior, “what’s up, bro?”

Curious now, Shitty leans forward to better his view into the hallway and catches a glimpse of a backwards Aces cap and a flash of blonde hair. Definitely Parson, then.

“Yeah, hey,” Parson grins, and shakes Storey’s hand, “I didn’t mean to, uh, crash your party, or anything.”

“No problem, dude,” Storey says, and the amount of forced calm in his voice would be hilarious if Shitty wasn’t still hella worried about this whole situation, “congrats on the fuckin’ cup, by the way. Game six was crazy.”

“Ha, yeah.” Parson takes off the cap and runs a hand through his hair before settling it back in place, “thanks.”

“Lemme get you a drink.” Storey leads him over towards Shitty, who abruptly realizes that he has to pull off the biggest miracle of his damn life because he’s still sorta drunk and has no idea what the shit he’s supposed to say to a) the NHL’s star forward b) his best friend’s ex… best friend? Boyfriend? c) a Stanley Cup winner.

Shitty can feel the eyes of his teammates as Storey and Parson make their way over to him. He’s drunk, yeah, and part of him is skeptical of Kent Parson’s very existence, but a bigger part of him is pretty fucking starstruck.

“Hey,” Parson grins at him, both hands in his back pockets, and he just sorta looks like any other bro at a college frat party.

Shitty’s brain can’t currently reconcile the fact that he has seen this man play hockey on television. Hockey that is, frankly, sexy as hell. And the fact that Parson is standing in front of him is just… really hard to compute right now.

“Hey, man,” Shitty says in reply, “did you want a drink?”

“Uh,” Parson looks briefly like he’s going to say no, but glances down at the tub and the corner of his mouth tightens just a little, “yeah, I guess. Just a little, though.”

Fully aware of the potency of tonight’s tub juice and Parson’s apparent reluctance to drink, Shitty barely gives him a quarter of a cup. Parse nods at him in thanks and disappears with Storey very soon after. Shitty takes a moment to force his brain into functionality, knowing that he cannot be drunk for very much longer, when Lardo appears at his side.

“Hey.”

“Hi, Lards.”

“Nicknaming the nickname already, huh?” She’s looking at the gathered hockey boys in the living room. “Who’s the guy that just came in? Your boys looked like they were about to shit themselves.”

“Oh,” Shitty says, “that’s, um. Kent Parson? He’s the captain of the Las Vegas Aces.”

“Captain? Damn,” Lardo whistles, “he looks like he’s barely older than us.”

Shitty sometimes forgets that other people don’t live and breathe hockey in the same way he does. “Yeah, he’s only 23. Youngest in the NHL.”

“He’s important enough to take selfies with?” She nods towards the furthest corner of the living room, where Parson has been surrounded by people with phones. He’s fairly sure that most of the partygoers taking selfies with Kent Parson have no idea who he is, only the vaguest notion that he’s someone they should know, and have judged by his teammates’ reactions that he is someone very important in the sports world.

“Yeah,” Shitty allows, “he’s probably one of the best players the sport of hockey has ever seen, he’s the youngest captain in NHL history, and he just won the Stanley Cup three months ago.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Think he’s any good at flip cup?”

“You’re good at flip cup too?”

“Probably better than Parson.” It seems like Lardo has made beating every hockey player in the Haus at some sort of drinking game her goal for the night. “I’m gonna find out.”

He doesn’t bother stopping her, just watches her march right into the selfie mill, stare down the NHL’s star forward, arms crossed and one hip popped. Shitty can’t see what she’s saying, but from the tilt of her ponytail can tell that she’s not going to take no for an answer. Parson, every inch a hockey bro and therefore unable to back down from any sort of challenge, nods, and a cheer goes up from the surrounding crowd.

They kick off the people playing pong on the table to set up, Ransom and Holster both loudly and unabashedly telling Kent Parson that he’s about to get his ass beat, and when the game starts the yelling is almost as loud as the music pumping from the living room.

Shitty gives up trying to act chill, and he shoves his way through the circle of his teammates. It becomes pretty clear that Lardo  _ is _ , in fact, also good at flip cup. Parson is only one cup behind, but as Shitty watches Lardo gets a lucky flip and lands her last cup in one try, and Shitty’s entire hockey team practically piles on top of her.

He’s absurdly proud and the way he’s beaming probably makes him look like a lunatic, but she shoves her way out from under the pile of sweaty hockey boys, not a hair out of place, and extends a hand to Parson.

“Good game.”

He grins, and it looks as genuine a grin as Shitty’s ever seen. “I almost had you.”

“You did,” she allows, “too bad it didn’t pay off for you.”

“I like you,” Parson declares, and all at once Shitty sees the way his teammates look at Lardo with wide eyes and clear admiration, “let’s play again.”

Shitty returns off to his tub juice, unnoticed. It’s easy enough to rope one of the new frogs into tub juice duty once it’s clear that most people are past the point of drinking for the night, and he slips off onto the back porch to light a joint and try once more to get his thoughts in order.

He loses track of time while he’s out there, the occasional cheer emerging from the cracks in the windows, but it’s nice outside. Quiet. He feels the wind across his face and halfheartedly pulls from the joint, exhaling smoke out in a stream into the clear night sky.

He doesn’t know how he feels about Kent Parson. Granted, he hasn’t really had the chance to meet the guy, but anyone who can hold his own against Lardo in a game of flip cup and then lose graciously deserves some respect.

Like he’s conjured her from his thoughts, Lardo pokes her head out from the screen door and calls to him softly. “Hey, Shitty.”

He turns, world slowly spinning around him, and smiles at her. She’s taken her hair out of the ponytail and it swings down around her shoulders as she leans outside. “Hi, queen of every single drinking game ever created, apparently.”

She smiles back at him. “I’m headed out. Just thought I’d say goodbye.”

“Had enough of thrashing my teammates? And NHL stars?”

Lardo laughs, “Yeah. They’re fun guys, I’ll give you that. And Parson is surprisingly decent at flip cup.”

“Huge compliment, coming from you.” Shitty notes. “It’s pretty late, are you sure you’re okay to walk home? You can crash in my room if you want.” He realizes after it comes out of his mouth that it’s probably too forward, and mentally smacks himself. “I mean – ”

“Shitty,” she interrupts, “it’s okay.” She’s still smiling at him, so she probably means it. “Ransom is gonna walk me back. I think he’s bummed that Holster left with some girl earlier. Or he just wants to get out of cleaning tomorrow morning, I can’t tell. But I’m good.”

He’s not jealous of Ransom, he’s not. He has to stay here, anyway, because as long as Jack and Kent Parson are in the same general area Shitty feels obligated to stay. He wishes he could say as much to Lardo, but that’s Jack’s private business, so he just says, “I’m glad you came tonight.”

“Me too,” she smiles at him gently and he can hear Ransom calling for her inside, “goodnight, Shitty.”

“’Night, Lards.”

The door swings closed behind her, and when it opens again two seconds later he doesn’t even bother turning around. “Rans not ready to leave? Thought I heard him calling you.”

“Um, sorry?”

Oh. That’s definitely not Lardo.

He turns, and Kent Parson is standing there under the porch light, looking almost nervous. “’Sup, brah. You lost?”

“No,” Kent says, taking off his cap to run a hand through his hair again. Shitty is starting to recognize it as a nervous tick, “I was asking your teammates if they could tell me where Jack was, and they all said to ask Shitty? So here I am.”

“Oh. Shit.” Shitty stubs out his joint and packs it away, getting to his feet. “Um, don’t take this the wrong way, bro, but why exactly are you here?”

He’s just crossed enough that his protective instincts win out over his goddamn common sense, and Parson must notice because he grimaces.

“Look, I haven’t seen Jack in forever, okay, and he won’t talk to me, and I just.” He does the hair thing again. “I was in New York for a thing, thought I’d come down and see him before I left.”

That’s over a three-hour drive, definitely out of the way, and Shitty notes this but deliberately doesn’t say anything about it. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Honestly?” Parson sounds sort of frustrated now, “I have no idea. He won’t talk to me, completely cut me out, and we were – ” he lets out a very controlled breath and says, “I just miss him, that’s all, and he was really goddamn important to me, and I just wanted to see how he’s doing because I’ve barely fucking talked to him in almost four years. That’s all.”

“Woah, bro,” Shitty says, holding up a hand, “okay. I’m not his security guard, you don’t have to persuade me or some shit. I’ll take you upstairs, but fair warning: I’d be surprised if your welcome is warm and fuzzy.”

“Yeah, I know.” Parson sighs as he follows Shitty into the house. He sounds defeated.

They climb the stairs in relative silence, and Shitty notes how many people have cleared out of the Haus by now. A decent amount of the team is just sitting in the living room, and Shitty would bet money that the only reason they aren’t fucking off to their own beds or already asleep on the couch is because of the man following him up the stairs.

He stops outside of Jack’s room and sort of gestures vaguely at it, assuming Parson will get the picture. He looks like he does, because he does the nervous hat thing one more time and sets his shoulders like he’s psyching himself up for something before knocking at the door.

It’s late, but not  _ that _ late, especially for college students, and Shitty has a feeling that even though Jack is an elderly person at heart and usually goes to bed fairly early, he’s still going to be awake. It’s a kegster night and Jack had actually been downstairs for some of it, so he’s probably just watching a documentary on Netflix before going to bed.

Sure enough, a faint, “What?” comes from inside the room, and Shitty, still crossed, stands in the hallway like an idiot while Kent Parson says,

“Zimms, it’s Kenny.”

_ Zimms _ . Suddenly, Shitty wishes he hadn’t shown Kent Parson to Jack’s room, wishes he had pretended that Jack had gone home with the girl he’d been talking to earlier, wishes that he didn’t have to share a bathroom with Jack because there is no way this is going to go well for either of them.

There’s a long pause, and then the door gets yanked open so abruptly that both Shitty and Parson takes a step back. Jack’s wearing his pajamas, hair mussed like he’d been lying in bed, and his eyes flick briefly to Shitty before settling on Parson.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Parson frowns. “I just wanted to come and see you, Zimms. We haven’t talked in forever.”

“You ever think there might be a reason for that?” Jack scowls at him. It’s not a grumpy-Jack scowl, either – he looks angry and hurt and a little afraid, and Shitty hates this, he hates it, and he knows that he should really be walking away right now but his feet stick to the floor where he stands, and he cannot find it in him to move. “Why would you come here?”

“I just – ” Parson huffs and clenches his hands into fists once, twice, before relaxing, “do we have to do this in the hallway?”

Jack doesn’t even look away from Kent when he says, “You’re the one who decided to show up here, I don’t see why I have to invite you in. You don’t get to have that anymore.”

It’s… rude? Which is ridiculous, because Shitty has seen Jack be short with people, and sometimes very blunt, but never outright  _ rude. _ He’d always thought Jack was too Canadian for that. Apparently not.

Parson’s mouth twists a little, like that hurts, and Shitty feels a little bad for the guy. “Shit, okay, then.”

Jack just continues to glare at him. “ _ Why are you here. _ ”

“I missed you,” Parson says, voice quiet like he doesn’t want anyone but Jack to hear it, “okay? I was alone in Vegas, and I missed you. They made me captain when I was  _ nineteen _ and I missed you and I couldn’t fucking talk to you about it because you shut me out. I won the  _ fucking Stanley Cup _ and it almost didn’t matter because I  _ still missed you _ , Zimms, we were supposed to do this shit  _ together _ .”

Shitty hears raw emotion in his voice, but also knows that Parson’s going about this entire speech the wrong way – the only things Jack’ll hear are what he missed out on by overdosing.

Jack’s hands tighten around the doorframe and his every feature looks hard and unforgiving. “So what, you thought that coming here and throwing the fact that you won the Stanley in my face is gonna make me feel  _ bad _ for you?”

“That’s not what I fucking meant and you know it, Jack – ”

“Oh, poor Kent Parson, you captained your team to the Stanley Cup. Youngest NHL captain in history, 76 points last season, best forward in the league.” He laughs, short and pained, and Shitty actively hates this. “You really expect me to believe that the only reason you showed up tonight is because you missed me?  _ Bullshit _ . You don’t need anyone, Kenny. You never have.”

You’re not listening to me, Zimms.” Parson says, brows furrowed.

“Then say what you came here to say and get the fuck out.”

“Fuck, okay,” Parson’s face looks harder, “fine. I’m sorry that you’re not in the goddamn NHL with me. I’m sorry you dropped off the face of the earth without once thinking about anybody but yourself, because god forbid Jack fucking Zimmermann ever matter to anyone, I’m sorry that you’re out here fucking around in college when you could be playing with me. I’m sorry I ever even came to this shitshow of a house, because clearly you could care less about me or the things that we had planned.”

He fixes his hair one last time and jams his hat on his head. “Good fuckin’ luck this season, Zimms. I really, really mean it.”

He turns and rushes down the stairs, and Shitty barely has time to make eye contact with Jack before the bedroom door gets slammed in his face.

Shitty makes a split-second decision and rushes down the stairs after Parson, who’s already halfway to his car by the time Shitty is outside on the front porch.

“Hold up, brah,” he calls, jogging across the road to where Parson is getting into his car. It  _ is _ a nice car, fuck, a sleek black Maserati that Shitty could only ever dream of owning. Figures that Kent Parson is a flashy sports car kind of guy. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Parson snorts, “I’m fine.”

Shitty folds his arms and regards him carefully. “You sure about that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he rolls his eyes. “Thank god I didn’t bring the fucking cup down here with me, huh? I was in the city for my cup day and I just.” Parson leans up against the car now, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “We were supposed to share those kinds of moments, you know? Zimms and me. I had it and all I could think of was that he was here in Massachusetts and how it wasn’t  _ that  _ far of a drive and how I could still have.  _ That. _ ” He exhales forcefully through his nose and straightens up. “It was stupid. I was stupid, that’s all.” He unlocks the car and steps inside. “Sorry. I probably ruined whatever was left of your night.”

He shuts the door and Shitty steps away from the car as the engine roars to life. Parson rolls down the drivers side window and looks out at Shitty for a moment. “Your teammates seem like good guys. And your tiny friend is very good at flip cup.”

“You just sound like you’re happy to finally be taller than someone for once.” Shitty says, because he doesn’t know how to respond to the rest of that.

Parson laughs, but it’s hollow and sort of sad. “Fuck off.”

“Later, brah.”

“See you. Shitty, right?”

He’s surprised Parson remembers. “Yeah.”

“Bye, Shitty.” And Kent fucking Parson rolls up the window of his Maserati and tears off down the street into the night.

Shitty stands alone in the street for a moment before making his way back into the Haus. His teammates, gathered in the living room, look at him with barely disguised excitement, but Shitty just waves them off and trudges up the stairs.

He hesitates outside of Jack’s bedroom but decides that he wants to continue being alive for a little longer and enters his own room instead. He changes and brushes his teeth, the bathroom door to Jack’s room firmly shut, and spends about ten minutes pacing back and forth while debating whether or not to actually knock.

He does knock, eventually, because he’s worried as fuck about Jack’s emotional ability to cope with Kent Parson showing up at his literal doorstep. When no reply comes, he shoves his way in, because they’re Jack and Shitty and knocking has never mattered much when it comes to them.

Jack is sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees and head between his hands. Shitty makes his way over to him slowly. “Jack?”

“What, Shits.” His voice is strained and still angry and Shitty honestly was not prepared for this.

He reaches out a hand to Jack before hesitating and dropping it back down. “I just wanted to see if you were okay, bro.”

“I’m not fucking okay, Shitty, thanks for asking,” Jack spits, head still in his hands. His fingers clench in his hair. He doesn’t offer anything else.

Shitty’s taken aback. “Okay, woah, no need for you to take it out on me, Jacko.”

“No? Was is Eggy or Flappy that brought him upstairs? I must’ve missed that.”

“What the fuck, dude? I came in here to make sure you’re okay but you’re kind of being a massive fucking dick right now.”

“I didn’t ask you to come check on me, Shitty.” Jack says, still refusing to turn around.

Shitty scoffs and turns towards the door, “Well, alright. Fuck me, I guess.” He returns to his own room with the slam of both bathroom doors, and rummages in his discarded pants for a lighter and the joint he’d packed away earlier. Once he’s got it, he snags a blanket from his bed and clambers out the window.

Is he still crossed? Yes. Is this safe to do while crossed? Probably not, but he’s here now, so.

He lights up and takes a long drag, falling backwards to lay on the roof. He finally has the peace and quiet he’s been looking for all night to get his thoughts in order, and this is the best he can manage:

Kent Parson? Doesn’t seem all that bad. He’d weathered the admiration of a bunch of college hockey bros with ease, had willingly challenged and graciously lost to Lardo at drinking games, and from the little Shitty can remember, had taken a genuine interest in the lives of his teammates. His conversation with Jack, however, had been objectively bad.

They both seem like angry kids around each other, Shitty muses, neither knowing when to stop riling up the other, common sense and rationality completely thrown out the window on either side. Their history is fucked up, sure, and Shitty doesn’t know the full extent of it, but it’s still clear that they know full well which buttons to push to get a rise out of each other, and that they’re definitely not afraid to push the shit out of those buttons.

He’s worried about Jack, because no way Kent Parson shows up at his house after three years, an NHL captaincy, the Stanley,  _ and _ the Calder under his belt, and Jack is just  _ angry. _ On the other hand, though, Shitty has never dealt with Jack’s pre-Samwell past so directly before. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do.

He smokes the remainder of the joint and heads back inside, because as the alcohol buzz wears off he’s getting colder and colder. He shuts the window behind him and burrows into bed, door to the bathroom still firmly shut, and he frowns at it as he drifts off to sleep.

A few hours later, he’s woken up by someone joining him in bed. A squinting glance at his clock says it’s half past 3 in the morning, and **Jack is lying next to him and shaking apart.**

Shitty sits up immediately and does his best to blink away the exhaustion, “Hey, hey, you’re okay.”

He manhandles Jack so that he’s leaning into Shitty chest – it isn’t easy, Jack is over 200 pounds of pure muscle – and wraps his arms around him, being sure to time his breaths slowly. “You’re alright, Jacko, I’ve got you.”

It takes him a second to realize that Jack just… isn’t breathing, and he immediately moves to try and make out his face. It’s hard in the dark, but Shitty isn’t about to get up to switch on the lamp, so he just reaches out to take Jack’s hands and says, “Bro, you gotta breathe, come on,” and it’s like Jack needed the permission, because he starts taking these huge gasping breathes that cannot possibly be helping.

“Breathe with me, bro, okay? You’ve got it, Jack, just slower.  _ Slower _ . You’re okay.”

It’s bad. Jack’s breaths keep hitching in the middle and they’re not slowing down, and now that his eyes are better adjusted Shitty can tell that Jack’s eyes are squeezed shut and that tear tracks have dried on his cheeks. He gathers his friend to his chest and holds him as tightly as he can, rocking back and forth just a little bit, repeating the same gentle nonsense all the while.

He remembers something his mom told him once, about how after a long run, rather than hunch over with your hands on your knees, you’re supposed to put your hands on your head to open up your lungs. He nudges Jack until he’s laying down and tries to push his shoulders back, make him less curled in on himself. “You’re alright, Jack. Deep breaths.”

It seems to help a little, and when Jack manages to hold his breath for a three count, Shitty asks, “Do you want me to call your mom?”

Jack nods, eyes still shut. Shitty returns and is about to offer the phone to Jack before he realizes that his hands are still squeezed tightly into fists, shaking far too much to hold the phone on his own. He puts the call on speaker and is surprised when Alicia picks up after only two rings. “Shitty?”

Jack seem to relax minutely at the sound of his mother’s voice. “Um, Hi, Mama Z.” Shitty says tentatively.

“Is everything alright?”

He doesn’t really know how to respond to that. “Yeah, uh, we’re fine, we’re safe. Jack is freaking out a little bit and I suggested we call you and he agreed? I’m sorry, I know it’s late.”

“Don’t worry about the time, Shitty, I’m glad you called me.” She sounds wide awake, and supremely worried. “Is Jack there? Can he hear me?”

“ _ Maman _ ,” Jack manages, the first word he’s said this whole time, and Alicia’s response is instant.

“Oh, baby,” she sighs, and Shitty watches fresh tears spill from behind Jack’s closed eyes, “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. You’re okay, alright? You’re doing just fine. Deep breaths for me, okay?” She keeps up a similar mantra for the next ten minutes, until Jack’s hands have unclenched and he can hold the phone himself. Shitty turns off the speakerphone and hands it to him, stroking a hand up and down Jack’s other arm as he listens to his mother on the line.

It takes an indeterminate amount of time for Jack to finally open his eyes, offering the phone to Shitty. “She wants to talk to you,” he croaks, scrubbing a hand over his face.

**Shitty takes the phone, “Hi, Mama Z.”**

“Hello, Shitty,” she says, voice suddenly far more exhausted than it had been moments ago, “thank you for calling me.”

“Thank you for answering, I know it’s really late.” Or rather, he thinks with a glance at the clock, really early.

“That doesn’t matter,” Alicia says, “please don’t ever hesitate to call me whenever you need to. My ringer is always on, after – well. I’ll always pick up, okay?”

_ Shit _ . Shitty exhales, long and slow. “Okay.”

“You being there for Jack means the world to Bobby and I. I just wanted you to know that. I have no idea what happened tonight, but it must’ve been pretty bad to trigger something like this. You handled it very well.”

“It’s no trouble at all, Mrs. Z,” Shitty says, unsure of whether or not he should tell her about Parson. She must know what he’s thinking because she reassures him that she’ll call Jack later, just to make sure he’s okay.

Shitty voices this to Jack, who’s lying on his back with bleary eyes trained on the ceiling. Jack sighs and reaches for the phone.

“I’m okay,  _ maman _ .” He listens a while and says, “Tired. Gonna sleep now. Mhm. Love you too.”

She says something that Shitty can’t make out, but Jack turns to him with the ghost of a smile on his lips and says, “She says she loves you.”

“Tell her I love her right back.” Shitty says, forcing his way between Jack and the wall, “Now scooch your giant Canadian butt over so I can cuddle you properly.”

He hears Alicia’s laugh as Jack hangs up the phone. “I can go back to my own bed, Shits.” Jack says quietly, “I’ve bothered you enough tonight.”

“Shut your stupidly handsome face and come snuggle with me, Zimmermann. And don’t wake me up at six in the morning when you leave for your run like the psycho you are.”

Shitty stays awake until he feels the tension leave Jack’s body and hears his breathing even out. Only then does he close his eyes and drop off himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Hi loves.
> 
> I'd originally had this chapter split into two parts, but with the latest update (only one more update until the comic is done - what?!) I kinda just wanted to post it. 
> 
> Also, Lardo is a queen, and I am very relived that Shitty has finally given her a nickname and I can stop writing "Larissa" because I kept forgetting that hadn't happened yet and I had to go back and change her name so. many. times. 
> 
> And finally, Kent Parson is here, which was honestly really fun (and kinda scary) to write?? I like him a lot (and I think he needs a ton of therapy), but I know he's a very polarizing character in canon, so if y'all have differing opinions all I ask is that you're respectful to each other/me in the comments!! We're just trying to have a nice, fun time out here in fic-land while we all pretend the comic isn't ending next month.
> 
> post for this chapter is  here! 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shitty has some fun conversations. That's it that's the summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me for the last three months: oh I should probably post more of that fic before the comic ends
> 
> Me for the last two weeks: ahahahaha the comic isn't ending I don't have to post anything because the comic is not ending 
> 
> Me now that the comic ends in six days and sticks and scones is out tomorrow (or today?! depending on where you live): ha. ha ha ha. ahahHAHAHA
> 
> Anyway here's another chapter.

Shitty wakes up and Jack is still in his bed.

It’s surprising, because Jack usually goes for a run at the ass-crack of dawn and wakes Shitty up when he finishes a shower. Considering the events of last night, however, Shitty isn’t exactly surprised to find Jack still beside him. 

The man in question isn’t even asleep; he’s just staring at the ceiling with his hands folded behind his head, tired lines weighing down his eyes. Shitty rolls over and blinks blearily at him until Jack turns as well, and they just sort of look at each other for a bit until Shitty tries to smile and Jack just sort of groans and rolls into Shitty’s shoulder.

“Good morning to you too.” Shitty says, voice hoarse with sleep. Jack just grumbles a little in response.

Shitty lets him sit there until he absolutely cannot ignore his bladder any longer, then he shoves a little at Jack’s shoulder. “Not that I don’t love this, babe, but I’m literally going to wet the bed if you don’t move.”

“Gross, Shits.” Jack smacks him but rolls off anyway. 

Shitty heads to the bathroom, and by the time he’s done Jack is sitting up on the edge of his bed, wringing his hands. Shitty reads the lines of stress already making his shoulders tense and takes pity on him. “Go for a run, brah. We don’t have to talk about this until you’re ready.”

Jack hesitates, but when Shitty starts getting changed for the day and tosses his pants at Jack’s face he all but rushes out of the room.

Shitty picks his way downstairs while Jack is out on his run, tosses three solo cups into a trash bag, and promptly flees the Haus when he realizes that the number of people left to clean up is dwindling rapidly and Eggy’s vomit is still in the kitchen sink.

Ransom and, to his surprise, Larissa – _ Lardo _, he has to remind himself – are sitting across from each other in the cafeteria. It’s strange enough to see Ransom without Holster looming at his side, but seeing Ransom eating with Lardo causes an irrational surge of jealousy to flare in his chest and he slides into the seat next to her before he can stop himself.

“My dearest bros. How are we feeling this morning?”

Lardo promptly elbows him in the side. “Volume needs to be lowered about seventy percent, please.”

Ransom, a pair of sunglasses perched precariously across his nose, nods slightly. The food on his plate is barely touched, as if he can’t bring himself to eat it, and Shitty steals a piece of bacon. Ransom barely even manages to glare at him.

At least, Shitty thinks he’s glaring. He can’t see his eyes behind the glasses.

“Did that hotshot hockey dude ever find you last night?” Lardo asks after a moment, “I heard him looking for you when we were leaving.”

“Bro,” Ransom perks up a little at that, “you actually talked to Kent Parson?”

Lardo cocks her head at him, “Didn’t you _ also _ talk to him?”

“Well, yeah,” Ransom shrugs, “but I complimented him at Flip Cup and then told him his hockey was sexy. I don’t think that counts. He laughed, though. I think.”

They turn their attention to Shitty, who also shrugs. “I dunno. I talked to him a little bit. Not really about anything important.” He elects not to tell them about the shuttered look on Parson’s face as he drove away. 

Lardo pops a bite of egg into her mouth, chews, and swallows before he says, “He seems like a cool dude.”

Ransom sighs wistfully and pokes at his food with a fork, “I can’t believe Kent Parson was in our Haus last night.”

They sit in silence for a moment, Shitty continuing to steal bites from Ransom’s plate, until someone appears at Ransom’s shoulder and plops into the seat next to him.

It’s Holster – he’s wearing the same clothes he’d worn to the kegster, his hair is a shitshow, and there’s massive hickey on the side of his neck.

He drops his head onto Ransom’s shoulder, and Ransom doesn’t even flinch, just ruffles his hair and offers him a piece of bacon.

“Sup, Shitty.” Holster says, voice at about 10% of its usual volume, “Hello, girl who kicked my ass at pong.”

“Lardo,” Ransom reminds him softly, and Holster grins.

“Right. Hello, Lardo.”

She smirks at him, but it’s soft and fond. Shitty slings an arm around her shoulder. “You truly made your mark on the Haus last night, my dude.”

“Someone had to put all you hockey dudes in your place,” she shrugs, “glad I could be the one to do it.”

Eventually, Shitty gets up to get his own plate. Holster joins him, and when they sit back down Ransom has come alive enough to chirp Holster about the girl he’d wheeled the night before. They spend long enough in the cafeteria that various teammates flow in and out, all of them stopping to say hello to their teammates and compliment Lardo on her drinking game skills. 

It’s only when Nate and Storey walk by and offer fist bumps to not only their teammates but to Lardo as well that Shitty has a realization. It’s perhaps the best idea he’s ever had.

“Bro,” he says slowly, “feel free to shoot me down, but like. How are your leadership and management skills?”

She laughs a little, “The fuck? Where did that come from?”

“Well,” he muses, “we hockey players are in dire need of a team manager.”

“And you think _ I’m _ qualified?” She says, eyebrows climbing somewhere near her hairline.

Shitty nods at her, no trace of hesitation. The more he thinks about it, the better the idea becomes. “You kicked their asses in every possible drinking game last night, so you’ve got their respect. You’re hella organized – no, I’ve seen your notes, don’t bullshit me – and honestly, I don’t think any of our managers have ever actually been _ qualified _.”

Across the table from them, Ransom and Holster are nodding too. “You’re kinda badass, dude.” Ransom adds.

Lardo glances over to Holster, who’s still nodding, and purses her lips. “Can I think about it?”

Shitty grins. “For sure.”

He pulls out his phone and texts Jack, just, _ I might’ve just done the best thing in the history of SMH and you’re going to love me even more than you already do _.

He doesn’t really see Jack for the rest of the day. By the time he returns to the Haus, having tried his best to avoid clean-up, Jack’s door is shut. Shitty is more concerned with the growing pile of homework on his desk that he’d ignored the night before, so he spends a good majority of his Saturday starting his assignments. 

By the time he looks up from his computer, the sun is starting to set, and his eyes are burning. He wanders downstairs but the only things in the kitchen are half an onion in the fridge and a cupboard containing three bottles of sriracha. 

Shitty despairingly texts the group chat asking if anyone wants to get food, and while he’s chilling in the living room waiting for a reply Jack walks through the front door. 

He stops in the doorway to the living room, leaning up against the frame and crossing his arms in a way that makes his biceps unfairly defined, and Shitty sighs internally. He’s got a Habs hat sitting backwards on his head, his underarmour t-shirt is a size too small, and the ridiculously hideous yellow tennis shoes Jack loves are on his feet. He’s unfairly attractive.

“You are unfairly attractive, you know.” Shitty says, shoving himself into a seating position. 

Jack rolls his eyes at him. “I saw your text. Wanna get dinner?”

“_ Yes. _”

“Let me grab my wallet,” Jack says, heading towards the stairs.

Shitty pokes at his own biceps and pouts. Jack comes back down to him frowning at his arms and smacks him across the back of the head.

“Ow. Fucker.”

Jack just shakes his head at him, “Let’s go.”

They settle into a booth at Annie’s and order, and Shitty debates whether or not he should bring up the events of last night when Jack says, “What was your text about?”

“Hm?”

“The text you sent me earlier?” Jack reminds him, “about how I’m going to love you for something?”

“Oh!” Shitty almost spits out the water he’d been sipping, “_ Oh _, bro. I have the best news. I might’ve found us a manager.”

Jack noticeably perks up, “Who?”

“Lardo? Larissa,” he clarifies when Jack looks confused, “the one from – ”

“ – your femgen class, yeah, I know.” Jack chuckles, “The one who wrecked the whole team at beer pong last night.”

“Yeah!” Shitty crows, ignoring the fact that Jack may or may not be chirping him. “We were at breakfast this morning and all the guys were coming up to her to say hi like they finally realized that she’s the best thing ever, or some shit. I figured if anyone is gonna be our manager it’s gotta be someone the team respects, right? And she’s already got most of them in the palm of her hand after last night, so.” He shrugs and drinks more water. “I asked her and she said she’d think about it. You wanna reach out? Text her or something?”

Jack nods slowly. “Yeah, that would be great, actually. Thanks, Shits.”

“No fuckin’ problem, my dude.” Shitty says as their food is delivered. 

They tuck in for a moment, quiet, before Jack says, “You sure this isn’t a front to get her number?”

Shitty throws a french fry at him. “Fuck off.”

They go the entire meal without talking about it, and Shitty is quietly dying on their walk back. He meant what he’d said, that he wouldn’t make Jack talk until he was ready, but _ damn _ if he isn’t practically vibrating out of his skin.

Jack doesn’t say anything until they’re crossing the bridge over to East Quad, and even then he just clears his throat and says, “So yesterday…” before falling silent again.

Shitty can take the lead here, as long as Jack’s okay with actually having this conversation. “Bit of a wild night we had, huh?”

“Thanks for that, by the way,” Jack says, one hand rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, “sorry I accosted you in your own bed.”

Shitty knocks Jack with his elbow. “Don’t apologize for that,” he admonishes, “you know I’ll never care.”

Jack shrugs one shoulder. “You might eventually. But thanks. Seriously. And I’m sorry I was kind of a dick before that.”

Which. “Yeah, bro,” Shitty sighs, “I mean. I know your stress level was off the charts, so. I get it.”

They fall back into silence, before Shitty finally breaks and says what’s been slowly eating at him for almost 24 hours. “Hey, for the record? _ I’m _ sorry, bro. I’m so fucking sorry that I didn’t ask you first. I should never have sprung that on you. I wasn’t thinking, and I just fuckin’ brought him upstairs like an _ idiot _. I wasn’t thinking,” he says again, shaking his head. “I’m really fucking sorry, too.”

Jack’s quiet for a little bit, and when Shitty glances over at him both of his hands are shoved into his pockets and he’s looking at the ground. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, “Just thinking.”

Shitty gives him a second, detouring to perch on the back of a bench lining the pathway. Jack joins him and kicks aimlessly at the ground before speaking. “It was kinda shitty,” he allows, “but there’s no way you could’ve known how things would go down. It’s not like I’ve ever told you. And besides,” Jack shrugs a little, “I know you were… definitely not thinking clearly.”

“Yeah, but you’ve told me enough that I was worried about it before you’d even opened the door.” Shitty admits quietly. “That’s on me, bro.”

Jack leans heavily against Shitty’s leg. “I forgive you.”

“You might be fielding questions from the boys for a while,” Shitty says. “Want me to handle those for you?”

There’s a strong exhale that could be very slightly considered a scoff. “I’m not a damsel in distress, Shits. I’ve got it. I’ve been talking to people about Kent for long enough, what’s a couple more questions?”

Shitty pets his hair. “You don’t _ have _ to, is my point. But alright.”

Jack turns and presses his forehead into Shitty thigh. “Thank you.” 

Shitty doesn’t reply, just continues to thread his fingers through Jack’s hair.

Later that night, when Shitty is lounging on Jack’s bed – with boxers on, because he’d gotten shoved onto the floor when he’d attempted otherwise – Jack’s mother calls.

He speaks in rapid french while Shitty idly scrolls through Instagram, trying and failing to understand a word of their conversation, and when Jack hangs up he says, “Maman says hi.”

“Hi, Mama Z.” Shitty replies, though he knows Jack is off the phone. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Jack replies, setting the phone back on the bedside table and picking up his book again, “She was just checking in. Asked what happened.”

Shitty glances over. “You tell her?”

Jack sighs. “Yeah.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Shitty doesn’t push. “She worries.”

“She loves you.”

“Yeah.”

Shitty frowns at him. “Jack.”

Jack doesn’t look at him. “I know,” he groans, “I know that I give her good reason to. It’s just… stifling, sometimes. You know?”

Shitty doesn’t, actually, but they don’t talk about his parent problems. He just _ hmm’s _ in agreement and they drop it. 

They don’t have practice on Sundays, but by the time Monday morning rolls around, the team has talked about Kent Parson’s visit too many times for any sane person, and Shitty is about ready to bash his head into the walls of the locker room to tune it out.

They do ask Jack questions, but they do it in a way that means they’re trying to be cool about the fact that their captain has a history with the best forward in the goddamn NHL. They’re failing pretty miserably, in Shitty’s opinion, but he keeps that to himself. Jack’s lips get progressively thinner as he tries to talk the team through new drills, and his answers get shorter and shorter each time someone interrupts to ask a question.

By the time the third person has asked if Parson is coming back to Samwell anytime soon, the coaches have evidently had enough and step in, and Shitty can see the tension drop of out Jack’s shoulders as he sits back down at his stall.

They talk a little about their upcoming season opener, and then to the shock of the team, announce that they’ve got a new manager. 

Shitty sits up straight and completely forgets about the finicky lace on his left skate when Lardo walks into the room, clipboard in one hand and pencil behind her ear. The boys actually _ clap _, which is ridiculous, and Lardo smiles and bows a little. She winks at Shitty. He tries his best not to grin like a loon.

He skates up to her after practice, dousing himself in a water bottle and making her glare at him when he splashes her paper a little. “You didn’t tell me, brah!”

She shrugs a little, “I wanted it to be a surprise. Is that dumb?”

“Nah,” he grins at her. He can’t really help it, it’s just what his face seems to want to do when he’s around her. “Loved it.”

Lardo opens her mouth like she’s about to say something else when someone bumps into Shitty from behind, spraying snow onto his skates as he does so. It’s Jack, checking up on Lardo’s first day as manager, and they talk shop long enough that Shitty excuses himself to the locker room to shower before class. 

Jack catches up to him as he’s leaving for the cafeteria with Ransom and Holster, and they walk together. Ransom is berating Holster for not seeing the trainers before practice, and Jack instantly turns on Captain-mode. 

“What’s wrong with your knee, Holtz?”

Holster shakes his head and glares at Ransom. “Nothing, cap, don’t worry about it.”

Ransom just raises his eyebrows at him, and Jack notices. “_ Holster. _”

Holster sighs. “Just an old injury from Juniors, that’s all. I swear it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Oh? Where’d you play?” Shitty asks, like Jack hasn’t personally gone through the files of every frog before they’d been accepted and told Shitty about them. 

Holster, though, lights up. “Up in Waterloo! USHL.”

He shoots a furtive glance over at Jack as he says so, clearly hoping to bond over shared Junior Hockey League experience, but he also probably doesn’t realize that Jack doesn’t love talking about his time in Juniors. When Jack just nods in understanding, it’s awkward for a moment before Shitty jumps in to ask why’d he’d chosen to come to Samwell instead of heading to the draft. 

Holster deflates a little, but gamely answers Shitty’s question. “I got hurt. Needed surgery,” he gestures to his knee, “and I wanted to go to college. Get a degree, just in case, you know? And hey, I never would’ve met Rans otherwise.”

Ransom fistbumps him almost without thinking about it. Shitty smiles adoringly at the both of them – they’re his favorite frogs by a landslide. He could probably count on one hand the number of times he’s interacted with the others. It’s easy to always be around the two of them, since they’re somehow always in the Haus and they’re always, unfailingly together. It’s almost scary how compatible they are. He thought he’d heard Ransom saying something about _ best friend sundaes _ the other day.

Their home opener against UMaine is on a Thursday. It’s almost the perfect day – his homework is done strangely early, there’s a gentle breeze cooling down the otherwise harsh sunlight, and he, Ransom, Holster, Jack, Flappy, and Eggy are kicking a soccer ball around in the parking lot outside of Faber. 

Lardo is sitting a safe distance away, scribbling away in a sketchpad, so she doesn’t see when Shitty’s ankle catches the ball at just the wrong angle to send the ball sailing straight at Jack’s face.

He barely has time to turn away, and the ball whacks him solidly in the side of the head. The frogs and Flappy, clearly torn between concern for their captain and nervous laughter, just sort of gape between the two of them. Eggy, however, is in hysterics, and is doubled over at the waist, much to the confusion of their teammates. 

“Oh, shit,” Shitty gasps, face splitting into a grin no matter how hard he tries to fight it off, “Jack, I’m sorry, I – ”

“_ Two years, _ ” Eggy gasps, now hanging off of Flappy’s shoulder for support. Everyone glances around at him curiously, while Shitty tries his best to grimace and Jack glowers, rubbing the side of his head. “Two years in a _ row _ , Shitty, _ how _?”

Jack notices the confusion mounting amongst the boys and Lardo, who had set aside her sketchbook at the sound of Eggy’s laughter and joined them. “Last year Shitty kicked the ball straight into my face. Made my nose bleed, everyone thought he’d broken it.”

The boys laugh and Lardo rolls her eyes, whacking Shitty upside the head before returning to her sketchbook. Meanwhile, Jack turns his glare back to Shitty. It’s supposed to be his irritated glare, but it’s halfhearted at best. “Let’s not make a tradition out of it, eh?”

Shitty pouts, “You’re no fun.”

Before he can blink, Jack catches him in a headlock and gives him a noogie that actually sorta hurts. “I’m plenty of fun.”

When he’s released, Shitty grabs Jack’s head in both hands and presses a smacking kiss to where he’d kicked the ball. “All better?”

Jack just shoves at him, “Whatever. I have to go meet with the coaches, maybe I’ll go check with the trainers for _ concussion testing _ while I’m there,” he says to Shitty pointedly, “just in case.”

“He can’t be concussed before our first game,” whispers Holster, worried. Shitty is sure he only meant for Ransom to hear, but since Holster’s version of whispering is the volume of a normal person’s speaking voice, it carries far enough that Shitty overhears. 

“He’s not concussed, he’s just a _ dick _,” Shitty raises his voice so that Jack hears. 

He turns around to shout, “You kicked a soccer ball at my _ face, Shitty _,” and flips him off, turning once more towards the doors of the rink.

Ransom slides an arm around Holster’s shoulders. He has to tiptoe a little to do it, but he pats Holster’s chest reassuringly as he does so, “He’ll be fine, and so will we.”

Holster grimaces down at him but his shoulders relax a bit, and Ransom smiles. “Wanna go ice your knee before we gotta change out?”

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” Holster allows. Eggy and Flappy, clearly aware that their impromptu soccer game is over, start a keepie-uppie competition between the two of them, and Shitty stretches out on the ground beside Lardo.

A brief glance over into her sketchbook has him sitting up a second later, “Whoa, _ brah. _ Those sketches are fuckin’ _ wicked _, can I see?” 

She hesitates before handing over the pad. She’s been drawing the human form, clearly, and the book is filled with disembodied calves and biceps and a crazy-detailed human back, flexing muscles and all. They’re incredible, and he tells her so.

“Eh,” Lardo shrugs one shoulder, “they’re alright, I guess. The shading keeps fucking me over.”

“Are you taking art classes?” Shitty asks, shocked to find that he doesn’t actually know, “Because you should be, if you aren’t.”

Lardo pulls her book from his hands and sets it aside, leaning back onto her hands. “I’m in beginning drawing next semester, but nothing right now.”

“Beginning drawing? Bro. You’re way too good for _ beginning drawing _.”

She scoffs. “Thanks. Doesn’t matter to the art department.”

Shitty watches her out of the corner of his eye for a moment. “How long have you been drawing? Like that, I mean.” He nods towards her book.

“A couple of years? I started in middle school, camped out in my art teacher’s classroom all through high school... I guess I manifested a creative gene in there somewhere.”

“Cool.”

He’s just starting to ask her what mediums she likes best when she interjects. 

“Art and I have a complicated relationship; do you mind if we just… leave it? For now?”

Immediately, Shitty’s mouth snaps shut. “For sure, brah. Sorry if I – ”

She rolls her eyes at him. “You don’t have to apologize, you idiot. Thank you.”

He hauls himself to his feet and holds out a hand to her. “No problemo. Wanna head inside?”

She squints up at him, the warmth of the afternoon light tinging everything around them just slightly golden, and grabs his hand. “Chyeah.”

They win, but it isn’t a good game. They win because Jack, once again, has singlehandedly dragged them to a final score of 2-1.

He’s pissed, afterward. The rest of the boys seem to care more about the final score than the shoddy playing that led them there, so they take their post-game lecture with a grain of salt. Jack, on the other hand, has such an angry frown etched onto his face that most of the team is deterred from anything other than a brief “good game, Cap,” as they split off to shower.

The Haus is a pretty jovial atmosphere for the rest of the night; since it’s Thursday they aren’t hosting a party, but there are enough non-hockey players crowded into the living room that Shitty figures they might as well be. He hangs out with Asher and Storey, sipping absently at the natty light someone had shoved into his hand and basking in the first win of their season. It’s not the ideal situation, since the team pretty much knows they all played like shit, but they’re gonna take the points anyway. 

Jack makes a brief appearance in the kitchen for a glass of water, but by the time Shitty breaks off his own conversation and tries to find him, he’s gone again. For the sheer amount of people in the Haus living room, the impromptu gathering doesn’t last very long, and soon enough it’s just Shitty, Flappy, and Eggy chilling on the couch. 

As the last frogs to leave, Ransom and Holster had done most of the cleaning. Shitty still finds himself snagging stray cans on his way up to bed, but he suspects Flappy and Eggy have explained the concept of dibs to them, since they’ve been suspiciously helpful – and always around the Haus – for the past couple of weeks. 

Shitty pokes his head through the bathroom to Jack’s room as he’s brushing his teeth, but Jack is working away at his laptop with his headphones in and doesn’t seem to notice. He walks in anyway.

He starts when Shitty tosses himself down on the bed. He really ought to go to sleep soon – they have another game against the Bears tomorrow and Jack was mad enough about the way they played tonight – but he’s still coming down from the restless adrenaline high that comes with a home win. Jack does take out one headphone, though, which Shitty takes as an open invitation.

“Good game tonight.”

Jack levels him with a very unimpressed glare. Shitty’s quick to affirm, “_ You _ specifically. _ You _, Jack Zimmermann, had a good game.”

He knows Jack isn’t going to believe it, but that’s an ongoing issue and he doesn’t push when all Jack does is roll his eyes. “We’ve gotta get better, Shits.”

“You think I don’t know that? You think the rest of the team doesn’t know that? It was our _ first game, _bro, let us settle in.”

“Sure _ seemed _ like they don’t know that.” Jack grumbles, poking halfheartedly at his keyboard. 

Shitty pats his shoulder, “It’s _ UMaine. _ We weren’t worried.”

Jack actually straightens up and faces him at that, “Shitty, it doesn’t matter if it’s UMaine or fucking _ Duluth _ , we can’t just let our game slip because we’re being _ cocky _.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Shitty nods, wincing very hard internally, “I’m sorry. You’re right. We’ll get on it tomorrow.”

Jack raises a single exasperated eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah, actually,” Shitty says. Jack looks a little surprised. 

“You weren’t downstairs with us,” he says by way of explanation, “they know our game was shit. You being the glorious motherfucker you are is the only reason we won tonight, and they know that. They might be a little mad about it, actually.” he chuckles a little, “They think they need to prove themselves.”

“Hm,” Jack frowns for a moment before saying quietly, “I mean, I’ll take it, if it really does make them work harder. I just don’t know how to push them without reverting back to the version of me they don’t like.”

Shitty grins up at him. “Aw. Feelings.”

“_ Shitty _.”

He reaches up to pat Jack’s arm again. “Brother, you’re gonna be fine. You know how they play in a game situation now, you can watch it again tomorrow, and we go from there. Kick their asses in practice on Monday if you want. We’ve got thirty-three games left, we’ll figure it out.”

Jack sighs, “I guess you’re right.”

“You _ guess? _”

“But if we lose to _ UMaine _ tomorrow, Shitty – ”

Shitty cackles.

They don’t lose to UMaine the following day. In fact, they’re winning so handedly with four minutes left in the third that Shitty can practically feel the stickiness of beer-soaked Haus floorboards through his skates.

The horn sounds four minutes later and their entire team is rushing the ice. Most of the guys beeline for Ransom and Holster, who had somehow racked up three points apiece from a goal and four assists. Jack’s smile is relaxed in a way it only is after really, really good hockey, exhausted and fierce and proud. Shitty, grinning, punches him in the shoulder, hard enough that he rocks back for a second before grabbing Shitty and pulling him into a hug. 

“Told ya.”

Their party that night is a little ridiculous, even coming from _ Shitty _, and the Haus is packed to the brim by 10:30. Ransom, who started off at the pong table with Holster, is making out with some girl against the wall of the dining room-turned-dance floor. Holster himself is spectacularly managing the drink table, a very pretty redhead tucked under his arm, and the team group chat is already full of chirps directed towards the two of them. They deserve it, Shitty supposes. Even Jack had made a point to congratulate them in the locker room after their game; they’d played nearly perfect hockey the entire time they’d been on ice. If anyone deserves to get laid tonight it’s them, and Shitty raises his cup and drinks to that.

He’s currently being squished into the corner of the nasty-ass couch by Anton and Flappy, who have gotten increasingly drunk (and increasingly flail-y with their limbs). If Shitty didn’t think he’d fall down immediately if he tried to stand, he would not willingly be there.

It’d been surprising to see Anton show up at a kegster by himself, and even more surprising that he’d beelined straight towards Flappy to “congratulate him”. Shitty is trying very, very hard not to assume things.

He’s not doing a very good job.

Eventually the two disappear – he’s  _ not  _ assuming, subconscious, shut the fuck up – and he’s frowning down at his empty cup when someone sits down next to him and offers him a beer. There’s still condensation on the can, and he pops the tab and swigs it immediately.

When he turns to thank whichever benevolent god had delivered it, he’s almost shocked to see Tia sitting next to him. It’s not that he’s been going out of his way to avoid his non-hockey friends, exactly, but he’s been so wrapped up in the frogs and Lardo and Jack that he… hasn’t really made the time.

He doesn’t even bother with a greeting, just holds his arms open and she leans forward to hug him. 

It’s nice. He’s missed her, now that he stops to think about it. He really has. He releases his arms, but she doesn’t move. Instead, she just sorta snuggles up next to him and he moves an arm to settle more comfortably around her shoulders. 

She pats him on the chest. “You played really well tonight.”

“You came to the game?” She is – was? – not a sports person.

“Yeah,” she shrugged, “a couple of friends wanted to.”

“Oh,” he realizes he doesn’t know which friends she means; he hadn’t even seen her walk into the Haus. Abruptly, he’s hit with a wave of sadness. He misses his friends. “Well. What did you think?”

“What did I think?” She smirks a little, “Well. I understood absolutely nothing that was happening, and I spent way too long trying to figure out why y’all would play a game that hurts people on purpose. It was fun when we scored, though.”

He grins down at her. “I missed you, brah.”

“I missed you too,” she punches him in the arm, but the angle is awkward from where she’s lying on his chest and it barely lands, “you never hang out with us anymore.”

Fuck. “I know.” He winces, “I’m sorry, I just –“ 

She pats him on the arm consolingly, “No, Shitty, it’s okay. You’re busy, you don’t have to apologize for that. We’ll still be friends, even if we don’t see you as much.” 

“Nah,” he shakes his head, “I should make more time for you guys, I just. Hockey, and the Frogs, I just got wrapped up in it.”

Tia shoves his arms away and sits up to look at him. “Shitty. Seriously, stop apologizing. Friendships change, priorities change, it’s not a big deal. Just don’t forget about us, okay? And come to dinner every once in a while.”

He’s about to open his mouth to apologize again and she punches him in the arm. It hurts this time. “Ow, fuck. Okay. Yes ma’am.”

She rolls her eyes at him.

They end up out on the roof, Shitty sprawled out across the roof tiles and Tia in the beach chair Shitty’d thrown through his bedroom window a week ago. They’d taken Shitty’s last two edibles half an hour ago and they’re finally starting to hit.

“T,” Shitty muses, the THC weighing down his tongue, “guess what?”

She rolls her head over to look at him, “what?”

“Hockey boys are kinda dumb, did you know that?”

Tia starts laughing, and Shitty plows on, “No, they are! They  _ are _ . Like. You can’t say this to anyone, Tia, you have to promise, do you promise?”

“I promise.”

“I think Ransom and Holster are in love with each other,” says Shitty, and suddenly realizes that he means it, “Woah. Are they in love with each other?”

There’s a pause, and then Tia says, “Shitty, I have no idea who Ransom and Holster are.”

“Oh, fuck.” He frowns, wracking his brain for their jersey numbers, “Um. 11 and 4.”

“The tall one and the pretty one with the cheekbones?”

“ _ Yes. _ ”

“I’m pretty sure I saw the tall one making out with Meg Rosen downstairs.” Tia frowns.

“I don’t think  _ they know _ .”

“You don’t think they know that they’re in love with each other?”

“Brah,” Shitty tosses up his hands in frustration, “hockey bros are fuckin’  _ weird _ .”

Tia makes a noise that Shitty chooses to interpret as ‘please continue’, so he does. “Like. Sometimes these fuckers look like they’re ready to make out with each other, but the second any of them feel threatened it’s all, ‘no homo!’ Like, c’mon. There’s at least  _ a little homo _ , get real!”

Tia cackles. “There’s always at least a little homo, Shitty. Welcome to the human psyche.”

“Fuck toxic hockey culture,” Shitty pouts, “let a bro love his bro.”

“Amen.”

She’s looking up at the stars, and the October moon is bright enough to light up her face. Shitty realizes he can’t quite drag his eyes away. “Tia.”

“Mm?”

“Do you remember when we met?”

“When you were making out with a door?”

“ _ Hey. _ ”

She laughs. “You were.”

“’m glad I met you. You were my first non-hockey friend, you know.”

That gets her attention, and she turns to look at him, surprise written across her face. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

Her face softens as she looks at him. “You’re a good guy, Shitty. I’m glad I met you too.”

They’re just looking at each other for a moment before he sees her shiver – the October night might be clear and bright, but the wind is crisp. He sits up carefully, the roof spinning around him as he does so, and crawls to his window to gather up his duvet and toss it at Tia.

She catches it and beckons him over, tugs him onto the tiny lawn chair, and drapes it over the both of them. Shitty hadn’t realized how cold he was until he cuddles up with her under the warmth of the blanket.

They lay there for a while, talking about nothing and everything and catching up with each other in the most roundabout way possible. Below them, the party begins to die down. Students in groups of twos and threes begin to make their way out of the Haus. Tia’s tucked her head into Shitty neck, and her fingers have been playing idly with his for the past… however long. He measures time by the sweep of Tia’s eyelashes as she blinks, the way the shadows from the moon move across her face. The Haus is pretty quiet by the time his high starts to wear off, and when he looks down to ask her if they should head inside, she’s already looking up at him. 

Her eyes flick down to his lips that that’s all it takes before he ducks down and kisses her. The angle is awkward since they’re both jammed into the chair, but she hums a little and kisses back, presses her body just a little closer to his, and he sinks down into the lawn chair and pulls to him by the waist.

They make out languidly for a moment before Shitty pulls back. “T – ”

“Thinking too much,” she whispers to him, drawing his face back to hers.

They make out on the lawn chair until Shitty can finally the telltale itch of exhaustion behind his eyelids. When he pulls away and suggests moving to his bedroom, Tia bites her lip and looks away.

“We don’t – we don’t have to do anything,” Shitty stutters, still a little high and kiss drunk and trying to find his footing, “it’s just… I thought it would be more comfortable? Especially since it’s late, and…”

Tia shuts him up by leaning in and kissing him again, and then she says, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” She smiles a little, a minute twitch of her mouth that Shitty would’ve missed had be not been staring at it. 

They clamber back through the window and it isn’t graceful, not even a little bit, but when they finally collapse together on Shitty’s bed they’re both giggling. 

Once their laughter subsides, Tia looks over and him and sighs, “Shitty, I can’t hook up with you.”

It takes him a little by surprise, but he rolls with it. “Okay.”

“It’s just,” she starts, but he cuts her off.

“You don’t have to justify anything to me,” he says, catching her hand in his.

She smiles at him again, a real one this time. “I know. Thank you. But I want to – sleep with you, that is. It’s just that I just broke up with my boyfriend, like, pretty recently? Recently enough that I’m not 100% sure you  _ wouldn’t _ be a rebound, and I don’t ever want you to think that you were.”

He squeezes her fingers a little in thanks. “Can I at least kiss you more?”

“Sure,” she laughs at him, and she’s still smiling when he presses her lips to hers. 

Part of him is surprised that he doesn’t wake up alone the next morning. The other part of him, the part that used to spend whole afternoons in Tia’s presence, is not nearly as surprised. The light streaming through the window is weak, so it must be early. She’s awake when he rolls over to look at her, scrolling through her phone.

Shitty blinks blearily up at her, and she smiles and sets her phone down. “Good morning, sleepyhead. You snore.”

“I do not,” he protests. 

Her smile turns indulgent. “You do.” She combs her fingers through his hair gently and continues, “I have to get going, but I wanted to wait until you woke up.”

“Nrgh.” He rolls over and presses his face into her side. She smells good.  _ Girls _ , he thinks blissfully. “Thanks for not leaving me in the lurch.”

She squeezes him gently before sliding out of bed. “Bye, Shitty.

“Bye,” he waves, and the door barely shuts behind her before he rolls over and goes back to sleep. 

By the time he wakes up again, the sun is higher in the sky. He lies there for a second, feeling the beginnings of a hangover at the base of his skull, before scrubbing a hand over his face and hauling himself up and out of bed.

Downstairs, Eggy and Jack are eating take-out from Jerry’s at the kitchen table. They both look up when he walks in, and Eggy waggles his eyebrows suggestively while Jack just sort of… smirks.

Shitty narrows his eyes and steals a slice of bacon from Jack’s plate in retaliation. “What.”

“Deets,” demands Eggy.

“ _ No _ .” says Jack. 

“Oh,” sighs Shitty, after he’s filled a cup of water and sat next to them at the table, “actually – ”

“Bro.” Eggy whines.

“No,” Shitty insists, “nothing happened. I swear. We made out a little bit, and then we fell asleep.”

Eggy seems disappointed, but Jack makes a disbelieving little noise and Shitty turns to him, incredulous. “I’m sorry, would you rather I made up a story all about how I went down on –”

“Okay,” Jack interrupts him, “no. Never mind. Thank you, Shits.”

Shitty blinks at him innocently. “Are you sure you don’t want to know what I was going to say?”

“Positive.” Jack shoves him. 

Eggy laughs at them around a mouthful of pancake. It’s disgusting. Shitty tells him so. When he swallows his food like a normal human being, Eggy says, “Tia’s pretty chill.”

Shitty shoots him a glance. “You know Tia?”

“Chyeah. She’s in my chem lab. Wicked smart, too, I think she’s the only one who actually knows what she’s doing.”

“I’m more surprised that you’re in a chem lab,” Jack says, the little gleam in his eyes he only gets when he’s being a little shit, “you’re smart enough for the big scary science classes, eh?”

Eggy throws a piece of egg at him, but it flies towards the door as Jack ducks and hits Johnson as he steps into the room. The four of them freeze in place for a second, Johnson staring from the egg on the floor to his Hausmates sitting at the kitchen table, and just sort of sighs.

He pours himself a cup of coffee from the pot, and behind his back Shitty, Eggy, and Jack try to keep their laughter as quiet as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I would like to thank Ngozi. I'm finally forcing myself to recognize that this comic is ending, because I have been in denial since the last update and now have to face the music. So I wanna thank Ngozi for creating a world that's inspired me to start writing again, has given me more self-realizations and little subconscious 'oh's' than I know what to do with, and for reviving in me levels of joy and excitement for content that I haven't felt in a very long time. I love this universe, I love these characters, and I am so grateful to her for letting us play with them.
> 
> Secondly, the world is going through a crazy time. Please take care of yourselves. Hug your loved ones (the ones you're self-quarantining with, do not go out and start hugging your friends, please for the love of god stay home). I - and so many others - are here for you if you need anything. We gotta keep each other sane.
> 
> Alright. I'm gonna go cry before the Bitty Blast starts tomorrow. I love y'all. I'm gonna keep updating this fic, I promise. Here's to Check!Please and all the incredible moments and memories that have come with it. Tumblr post  here. 
> 
> Godspeed, everyone.
> 
> EDIT: I rushed this chapter and as a result could not write down a single word for the next five months. I hated how I ended this, I hated what I did to Tia when I genuinely loved her character. I feel much better about this version than I did about the original. Next chapter is already mostly written, so it's coming soon.


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